


Heartbeat

by SherLOCKED79



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the first few chapters it's all fluff, And because I love it so much let's add a little more fluff, Birth, But there isn't actually abortions, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Abortion, Mentions of Rape, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, OC, Pregnant!Sherlock, Some more Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 109,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherLOCKED79/pseuds/SherLOCKED79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mpreg and Parentlock! When a horrific occurrence at the hands of Sebastian Moran leaves Sherlock Holmes pregnant with a child he never expected he'd want, will the detective be able to cope with the hardships of bearing a child… Will John? Rated M for mature content towards the beginning end and possible language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Discovery

Chapter One: A Discovery

**1 week, 4 days**

"Sherlock? Sherlock?!" John yelled, crashing through yet another set of doors in the filthy building. "Oh god," the doctor gasped, stopping in his tracks as he entered the room. Lying on the ground, nearly ten yards away, Sherlock lay in a crumpled heap, completely naked, save for a thin sheet covering his modesty.

John froze, staring at his friend's battered and broken body, eyes immediately taking notice of the gashes and bruises littering the detective's alabaster skin.

"Sherlock," he sighed sadly, both relief and incredible sadness flooding his veins. "Greg! He's here, he's here! I've got him! We need the stretcher!" the doctor called, yelling over his shoulder towards the Inspector. Heart racing with the prospect that his friend could be dead, John quickly pulled off his coat and hurried towards the corner, unsure of what he would find.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly once he reached the detective's body. The doctor sighed in relief as he noticed Sherlock's chest moving up and down, though the breathing seemed shallow, too quick.

"John? John, where is—" Lestrade stopped in the doorway, flashlight in his hand as he stared at the scene in front of him. "Back!" he barked over his shoulder. "Stay out! Only the stretcher. John, is he okay?"

"He's breathing, but he's got all sorts of lacerations and bruises..."

"God," Lestrade muttered sadly, gazing at his friend's broken body.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, quickly kneeling down and wrapping his coat around the detective's limp form. "Sherlock, we found him. Moran's dead. We've got you," he whispered, shaking the man's arm and attempting to lift him up.

Upon hearing John's voice, Sherlock groggily opened his eyes, gazing off into nowhere.

"Oh," John sighed sadly, staring into his friend's foggy eyes. It was quite clear the detective had been drugged, and heavily, at that. But John still held onto a small glimmer of hope as he stared into Sherlock's ever-changing grey eyes and saw, underneath layers of a drug-induced fog, that there was still that spark of cunning... John could still see his friend's brilliant mind working, despite the effects of the drug.

"Thank god," he whispered quietly, wrapping the coat further around Sherlock's freezing body. "Damn it! Where on earth is the stretcher?"

With a huff of angry annoyance, Lestrade marched off towards the door, face flushing a bright red as he prepared to yell down the hallway. Just as the Inspector took a deep breath, several men hurried into the room, a long stretcher in their hands.

"It's about bloody time," John all-but-growled as the men hurried over, and started to lift Sherlock's limp form onto the white sheets.

"Hmm... Joh... J..." Sherlock managed, brows pulling together as his chest heaved up and down with labored breaths.

"Sherlock? Shh... Shh, it's all right. I'm right here and Greg's just there," John said quietly, hurrying towards the detective.

"Mor... Uhm..." Sherlock's head tiredly lolled to the side as the stretcher started to move.

"Shh. Just rest now, Sherlock. I'll explain everything later. Just rest."

With an infinitesimal nod of his head, the detective's eyes slowly slid shut, his entire body going limp as he slipped away into a much-deserved sleep.

**2 weeks**

Sherlock awoke with a start, the memories of the past week and a half suddenly flooding back in a stinging rush of emotion. The detective gasped quietly at the realizations of what had happened, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately tried to shove away the aching onslaught of recollections; desperately tried to shove away the memory of Moran on top of him... The pain and terror as he...

No. Sherlock silently scolded himself, tangling a fist in the sheets as he forced the memory, the feeling away. The detective frowned upon feeling the distinctive crispness of the papery fabric beneath his fingers. Hospital bed. Not home.

With a soft huff of a breath, Sherlock opened his eyes, the steel-grey orbs expertly scanning around the bright room. The detective paused as his gaze fell upon John. The doctor was sitting in a very uncomfortable-looking hospital chair, holding his head in his hands while he simultaneously massaged his forehead, muttering tiredly to himself.

Squinting slightly as he assessed his friend, Sherlock took note of the doctor's unwashed hair; noticed the light stubble on his face. Has not eaten in eight hours. Has not shaved in at least four days. Significant weight loss. At least five pounds. Has not slept for at least 27 hours... Clothes are three days old... Total number of days I have been in the hospital is three.

"Three days?" the detective asked quietly, his deep, baritone voice filling the otherwise-silent room.

John nearly fell out of the chair as he jumped at the sound of his friend's voice. "Sherlock?" he gasped in amazement, a small, almost hopeful smile gracing his lips. "You're awake!"

"Obviously," Sherlock almost chuckled, something of a smile forming on his lips. He flinched slightly, as the motion hurt him, sending a rush of pain and dizziness to his head. "How badly?" he asked, now serious, looking up at John with questioning eyes as the doctor quickly approached.

Running his fingers through his short, sandy hair, John's face suddenly became somber as he stared at his injured friend. "Pretty badly," he said quietly, hovering near Sherlock's bed. "Several broken ribs... Too many cuts and bruises to count..."

Sherlock nodded, trying to gain the courage to ask the question he knew John was waiting for. "John," he started quietly, averting his gaze and staring at the ground. The detective's fingers were already clutching the thin fabric of the hospital sheet between his fingers, his knuckles turning white from the grip. "Did he..."

"Yes," John whispered quietly, watching his friend with sad eyes. "He did. I—I'm sorry, Sherlock." The doctor waited silently, feeling a strange stab of pain course through his chest as the noticed the broken realization flash across his friend's eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly, and without thinking, reached forward, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "Really."

Trying to keep the rush of emotions he was feeling in check, the detective allowed John to grab his hand, not even shying away at the rare show of physical affection.

The two remained like that, the doctor holding his friend's hand, Sherlock holding back the tears threatening to spill over, and John pretending he didn't see any of it happening.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock managed eventually, voice raw with emotion and sounding strangely broken.

"Of course." With a weak attempt at a reassuring smile, John released the detective's hand.

Sherlock quickly cleared his throat and sat up in the bed, frowning slightly at the dizziness that washed over him.

"Mmm," he grumbled unhappily, kneading his slender fingers into his temple. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"When can I get out of this bloody hospital and into some real clothes?" he asked, glaring down at the thin hospital gown covering his frame.

There was a slight pause. John just stared at his friend, who gazed back, completely serious.

"Pfha!" John cried, suddenly bursting into laughter at his flat mate's request.

Sherlock managed a weak chuckle of his own, a small smile gracing his lips as he laughed with the doctor.

"Ohh," John sighed, wiping away at the corners of his eyes. "I'll go see what I can do, all right?" he chuckled, giving Sherlock a warm smile before hurrying out of the room.

Sherlock was discharged from the hospital the next day, after terrorizing all of the nurses and doctors, informing each and every one of them about the embarrassing secrets of their lives, whether it be about their cheating wife, heroine-addicted son or telling them that they were about to go on a date with a person who was already married. Needless to say, the staff was all the more eager to get the detective out.

Though it took a few days to get back into the swing of things, with much help from John, Sherlock was quickly back on his feet, and plunging full force into as many cases as Lestrade could hand him.

And, though the detective tried to make it seem as if it was merely because of lack of brain stimulation, John knew that the real reason Sherlock was so desperate to immerse himself in his work was so that he could try to forget the horror of what had happened while in Moran's presence. And the doctor was perfectly fine to leave it be like that...

 

 

**7 weeks**

When John returned home from surgery, takeaway in hand, he was welcomed by a completely silent flat.

Brows pulling together in confusion and mild worry, the doctor quickly hurried up the stairs, and entered the flat, tucking his keys into his pocket.

"Sherlock?" he called, quickly double-checking the kitchen to make sure he had not missed the detective on the way up. John frowned as he saw several papers resting on the top of small table, a few more scattered about the ground. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that, scribbled across several of the papers, was Sherlock's distinctive handwriting.

Fearing the worst, John hurried back into the sitting room. "Sherlock?" he called worriedly, already pulling out his phone. The doctor paused, however, upon hearing a soft, muffled shuffling sound coming from Sherlock's room.

Frowning slightly, John hurried into his flat mate's room, not even bothering to knock. "Sherlock?" he called again. "Oh," he sighed quietly upon turning towards his friend's bathroom and seeing the detective's thin frame dry heaving into the toilet, his pale skin somehow seeming almost translucent in the dim light as he grasped onto the side of the bowl.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked worriedly, pausing in the doorway. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sherlock sick—couldn't remember if the detective had ever even been sick!

"Yes, John. I'm fine," the detective sighed, quickly shoving himself away from the toilet. "Just a little bit of nausea, that's all."

"Okay... Well I brought takeaway, if you're interested. Chinese. But if you're—"

"I'm fine, John. Thank you. I'll uhh... Be out in a moment."

John stared at his friend, eyeing him with a skeptical gaze. "Right. Okay. See you in a few." With a few moment's hesitation, the doctor turned, and headed into the kitchen, deciding he'd make a smaller plate for his flat mate.

Sherlock watched as John left, managing a small, reassuring smile for the doctor. Once he knew his friend was out of earshot, the detective moved to the sink, bracing himself with his hands as he bowed his head, brow furrowing in discomfort.

Quirking his lips as he tried to ignore a new wave of nausea, Sherlock looked up, assessing himself in the mirror. He frowned slightly upon seeing how pale he seemed, how hollow his cheeks appeared. The detective, himself, couldn't even remember when he had last been ill, and the thought only made his frown deepen. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes did not just... Get sick.

A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock started some cold water running in the sink, cupped a handful of the cool liquid in his hand and splashed it across the face, enjoying the refreshing feel of it over his warm cheeks.

"Mmm," he sighed, releasing the sink as he straightened, promptly tucking in some of his purple shirt that had become undone. Clearing his throat, Sherlock crouched down, grabbing his suit jacket (which he had discarded in his dash for the bathroom) and wrapped it around his thin frame, buttoning it as he stared at himself in the mirror. With a small nod of his head at his reflection, the detective smoothed down the front of his suit and left the bathroom, already feeling another wave of nausea burning in his stomach as he was assaulted by the smell of Chinese.

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked silently as he sat down at the table, ignoring how strangely potent the food was smelling.

"Sure," John replied hesitantly, taking notice of how uncomfortable his flat mate looked. "So did you get anywhere with the uhh... Oh, the diamond case?"

"Oh," the detective scoffed, giving John a massive eye roll. "It was too easy. Ridiculously easy, even! It was obviously in the gardener's wallet," he sighed dramatically, twirling a few noodles onto his fork. "I keep insisting that Lestrade should not trouble me with such trivial cases as that."

"Right," John chuckled sarcastically, shoving a few forkfuls of the food into his mouth. "Of course he shouldn't. Anyway... I noticed the papers in here... New case? Or just notes."

"Hmm? Oh, these? No, they're just—" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as he moved the fork to his mouth, placing the greasy meal into his mouth. Covering his lips with his hand, the detective hurried out of the room, barely making it to the toilet as he threw up, this time emptying the few contents of his stomach into the bowl.

John quickly followed after, his worry only worsening as he saw Sherlock start to vomit into the toilet. "Seriously, Sherlock, are you sure you're all right?"

"Mmm," the detective managed in reply, a thin sheen of sweat slowly forming on his forehead as he coughed, trying to clear his mouth of the bitter taste. "Yes, John. I am still a grown man and am more than perfectly capable of taking care of my—"

John watched, frowning sadly at his flat mate's thin form as the detective once again vomited, clinging to the side of the bowl as his whole body convulsed.

"Okay, okay," he sighed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Just... Concerned, that's all. In the years I've known you, I've never even seen you have so much as a cold. So this seems uncharacteristically out of character."

"Yes. Although, human biology requires me to become ill every once in a while. Though," Sherlock sighed, shoving away from the toilet and resting his head against the bathtub. "I must admit even I can't remember the last time I was ill."

"Hmm... Maybe you just caught a bug or something."

"Yes," the detective murmured, kneading his slender fingers into his forehead as he focused on taking deep breaths through his mouth.

"Right. Well, I'm probably going to head off to bed; I've had a long day. You're sure you'll be..." A glare. "Yes. Right. Sorry. Well, I'll uhh... See you tomorrow." With a reassuring smile, the doctor turned, quickly exiting the detective's room and making his way to his own.

Still rubbing at his forehead, Sherlock allowed his body to go limp against the tub now that John was gone. The detective groaned loudly as he could feel another surge of nausea, though he knew the contents of his stomach had been completely emptied. Pushing his worry aside, Sherlock leaned back forward, not noticing as a single hot tear slid out of the corner of his eyes as he started to retch again.

The next morning, after getting ready, John slowly meandered downstairs.

"Ah," he sighed, almsot in relief, upon seeing Sherlock, seated at his microscope, scribbling notes away onto a piece of paper. "Feeling better?"

"Mmm," the detective hummed in response, too immersed in his work to bother with a real response.

"Good," John chuckled, moving into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. "Any luck?"

"No. Markings don't make any sense."

"Markings?"

"Here. And here," Sherlock said tersely, showing John several pictures.

"Mmm," the doctor hummed, carefully examining the photos. "You're right; they don't make any sense."

"Yes."

"Right. Shoot! I've got to be off. I promised Sarah I'd be there early today. See you?"

"Mmm." Chuckling softly at his friend, John quickly tugged on his coat and hurried out the flat.

When the doctor returned home from surgery, he was worried to once again find Sherlock hunched over the toilet, heaving up the little food he'd had in his stomach.

And that's how it went for the next three days; John would get up in the morning to see his flat mate, looking completely fine and well, and the return from work to find the detective hunched over the toilet, heaving into the bowl.

"That's it!" he cried after the fourth day. "Come on. I'm taking you to the hospital."

Weak from the lack of food and fluid in his system, the detective gave a feeble nod of his head, clearing his throat as he pulled himself into a standing position. "Fine." Pressing his lips together in a crisp line, Sherlock followed John and exited the bathroom, pulling on his coat and fixing his scarf around his neck.

The doctor couldn't help but chuckle at how pristine Sherlock still looked, despite having been confined to a bathroom the past four days, all-but-puking his guts out.

"Ready?" he asked, hand hovering over the front doorknob.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, giving a tiny nod of his head.

"All right."

Knowing nobody would be in at such a late hour, John quickly ushered his flat mate into a room, flicking on the lights and washing the room with the bright light. Sherlock flinched slightly at the offending flash, but then turned his attention to John, linking his hands behind his back and waiting expectantly for instructions.

"Right. Now just uhh... Hop on the... Up there, I guess," the doctor said awkwardly. For some reason this was so much more difficult to do with Sherlock than with an actual patient, though he couldn't quite place why.

Smirking at his friend, Sherlock quickly shed his coat and moved onto the cot. He frowned slightly at the crinkly feeling of the paper sheet underneath.

"Good," John sighed, moving over towards his friend's thin form. "Now, I'm going to need to feel around your stomach, all right? Is that okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock chuckled, amused by John's obvious discomfort.

"Right. I'll need you to pull your shirt up."

Still smirking, the detective settled (as much as he could) into the paper sheets and undid his jacket before untucking and pulling out his shirt, exposing his flat stomach, which, when he was lying down, curved in ever so slightly, forming a subtle, concave dip.

Quickly switching into doctor mode, John rolled up his sleeves, shooting Sherlock a dithering look at his saw how thin the detective was. Turning his attention back to his friend's flat stomach, the doctor grabbed one of the tiny chairs with wheels and rolled over to Sherlock's right side. "Right," he murmured, placing his hands on either side of the detective's abdomen. "I'm just going to feel around here; see if anything seems out of place."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John's professionalism, but remained silent as the doctor started to rub around his abdomen, moving his skilled fingers in careful circles up and down his middle.

"Well," he sighed a few moments late, still rubbing his fingertips into Sherlock's skin. "I don't fell anything out of place... So I think... Well..."

Sherlock watched as John's eyebrows slowly pulled together. It was clear to him that the doctor had felt something out of place. "What?" he asked anxiously, watching as John's fingers continued to rub circles around a particular spot on his stomach. "What have you felt?"

"I'm not... It feels like... Just a moment. I'm going to try an ultrasound," he murmured to himself, brows drawing even further together as he removed his fingers from Sherlock's middle. Ever the doctor, though, once he saw his friend's worried expression, John gave the detective a warm smile. "It's probably nothing; I just want to check and make sure," he said reassuringly, quickly sliding off the chair and moving towards one of the cabinets.

Sherlock flinched slightly as the rolling chair hit the wall with a soft clink, already feeling unwell and now even more on edge with John not telling him what he'd found.

"Ah. Here we are," the doctor sighed, pulling out the sonogram machine and getting it ready. "Now," he started, positioning himself back on the chair and moving over to Sherlock once again. "I'm going have to put some of this on your stomach, all right? It's going to be cold."

Eyeing the doctor suspiciously, Sherlock gave a small nod of his head, watching as John squirted the glossy liquid onto his stomach. The detective's lips twitched up in mild discomfort at the sudden cold, but he quickly relaxed as John pressed the wand to his stomach.

"Right. Okay... I'm just going to... Move this around here and see... What we've got—" Suddenly, the doctor stopped, eyes frozen on the screen positioned just above Sherlock's head. His entire body stopped, as well, and the wand remained frozen in its spot on the detective's stomach, making the ultrasound image even more clear and obvious. "Shit," John muttered, eyes suddenly becoming sad as he stared at the image.

"What?" Sherlock cried anxiously, body straining as he turned around in a desperate attempt to glimpse the image his flat mate was looking at. "What? John, please tell me!"

"Sherlock," John breathed, tearing his eyes away from the screen and managing a small smile for his friend. "You're pregnant."

 


	2. A Decision

"Sherlock," John breathed, tearing his eyes away from the screen and managing a small smile for his friend. "You're pregnant."

Sherlock's whole body seemed to stop mid-breath. Suddenly, there was a constricting weight deep in his chest and he couldn't breath; his mind was not allowing him to think straight, instantly flooding with the statistics of how impossible this was, how slim of a chance there was for something like this to even occur!

"What?" he finally managed, voice straining from the lack of air. "I—that's impossible, John—I—I can't—can't possibly be—"

"Look," John urged quietly, gesturing to the screen with his free hand. "I guess you're a carrier. It's rare, but... Not impossible."

Chest heaving with terrified, unbelieving breaths, Sherlock turned, eyes frantically scanning back and forth over the screen. A strangled sob escaped his lips as the detective saw the image—the image coming from inside of him. Sure enough, in a sea of fuzzy grey, there was a little blob of black, and nestled safely inside... Was an incredibly tiny, barely distinguishable human being.

"See?" John murmured quietly, carefully studying Sherlock's features for signs of anything; anger, sadness, joy, fear...

Stricken by what he was seeing, the detective merely stared at the image of the tiny human being inside of him, unable to process the proper information. "So the sickness..." he started, voice just a whisper as his eyes remained glued to the screen.

"Morning sickness," John inputted, smiling sadly at his friend. "Right on time, too. Judging by the size, I'd guess your baby's about 6 to 7 weeks old."

Sherlock froze at John's words, his eyes falling just below the screen as he came to a sudden, blinding realization... The child's DNA was a mix of his and... "Moran," came the detective's strangled whisper. Eyes filled with fear and contempt, Sherlock turned his attention to John, not even noticing how he was gripping the papery sheet beneath him. "John," he choked out.

Realization also dawning, John's expression soon transformed into one of great sorrow. "Sherlock," the doctor whispered slowly, the apology clear in his voice. He took one of his friend's shaking hands in his own. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock..."

"I want it terminated. Immediately," the detective suddenly inputted quietly, face now completely blank as he stared at the wall, though John could see the storm raging behind those grey-green irises.

"All right," John stated carefully and gently, watching his friend with hesitant eyes. "Do you want to talk a walk, catch your breath? It might help to—"

"I want. It. Terminated," Sherlock practically spat, pressing his mouth into a tight line as he sat up in the bed. "Men don't have babies, John!" Sherlock countered, turning on his heel to stare at John. "It's abnormal, John! I couldn't care less about the DNA of the child! But I don't need one more reason to be called a freak!"

John froze in his position. He took note of the tears in Sherlock's eyes; noticed how a few had slipped down the detective's cheeks and left a wet trail where they had traveled. Suddenly understanding the enormity and absurdity of what he'd just implied Sherlock should do, the doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry, mate. That was horribly unfair of me. I wasn't thinking properly."

Unfazed by John's regretful expression, Sherlock continued, suddenly unable to stop the stream of emotion flooding through him. "Of course. I would be the one man in who knows how many who have the ability to carry a child! Just what I need. Furthermore, you and I both know I am most definitely not father material, John! Bringing this child into the world would be far more cruel than taking it out right now! Can't you see that? This is—It's not—John, I can't!" Chest heaving, Sherlock ran a thin hand through his raven curls, a few more tears sliding free as he did so.

Knowing better than to try to reassure his friend with physical affection, such as a hug or a pat on the arm, John merely murmured, "I understand, Sherlock. Whatever you need." Suspecting the detective would appreciate the room to himself, John silently snatched his coat and headed for the door. "I'll be at the flat if you need me, Sherlock. If you need me to make some calls, if you want me to come with you to... get it done, I'll be there in an instant. Whatever you decide to do, I'll be there for you. Just... let me know." Not expecting a response, the doctor silently slipped from the room." 

Wiping away at his tear-stained cheeks, the detective quickly pulled his mobile out of his pocket, punched in the numbers a little more forcefully than usual and held the mobile up to his ear.

"Mycroft? Yes. It's me. I need a favor."

 

 

Several hours later, Sherlock was resting on the white sheets of a hospital-style cot, similar to the one he had been lying on earlier with John. The detective waited silently as a nurse came in, flipping nonchalantly through some pages on a clipboard.

"Hello Mr. Holm," she sighed, taking a seat in the chair next to the bed and turning on the ultrasound machine.

"Holmes," Sherlock corrected half-heartedly.

"Yes. Shirt up, please? Going to be cold," she said quietly, sounding incredibly bored as she squirted some of the clear liquid onto his stomach.

"Just have to find the baby to check and make sure everything..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the woman trailed off, allowing her to massage the gel around his exposed abdomen.

"Okay. Here we go," she sighed dramatically, placing the wand to the detective's stomach. "Where is the little guy... There it is. It's young. Good. Makes our job that much easier."

Sherlock couldn't help but shiver at her words as a trail of goosebumps traveled up and down his body.

Though he silently scolded himself for doing so, the detective dared a glance back towards the monitor. His eyes saddened as he stared at the tiny image of the child... His child...

And then, with a tiny movement of the wand across his middle, there came a gentle thrumming, almost like the distant galloping of horses.

"Wait, wait! Go back," Sherlock said hurriedly to the nurse. "What was that?" he asked, as the sound once again reappeared.

"Heartbeat," she answered nonchalantly, giving the detective a puzzled look and a quirked eyebrow.

"Heartbeat," Sherlock repeated softly, voice just a whisper as he stared at the image. "It has a heartbeat."

"Well of course it does, it's alive, after all," the nurse almost chuckled, giving Sherlock a dithering look as she pulled the wand away, and with it the image of his child and the sound of its heartbeat.

"Heartbeat..."

 

 

 

 

As John had wanted to give Sherlock free reign of the flat alone to work through his thoughts and emotions without an inside eye peering in, the doctor had spent a restless and sleepless night at his sister's. By the time the doctor woke up the next day, he suspected Sherlock would have returned to the flat, sorted through some of his thoughts, and be in need of some sort of emotional companionship. After calling a cab, John braced himself to handle whichever of Sherlock's many personalities currently resided inside the flat, and then opened the door to 221B. "Sherlock?" the doctor started quietly as he rounded the corner of the stairs, hurrying up into the sitting room. He stopped in the doorway upon seeing Sherlock, curled into a ball in his chair, whole body shaking as sobs coursed through him. "Oh, Sherlock," the doctor sighed sadly, hurrying over towards his friend, taking the chair opposite. "What happened?"

Hastily trying to wipe away the tears that were still streaming down his face, the detective only curled further inward, embarrassed at having been seen like this. "I went somewhere," he said quietly, pressing the heel of his palm underneath his eye.

"Oh," John hummed quietly. He leveled a concerned gaze on his friend as he linked his fingers together and propped his elbows up on his knees. "What happened, then?"

"I couldn't do it, John," Sherlock sobbed suddenly, tugging angrily at his raven curls.

"What? What do you mean you couldn't do it?"

"I—the woman, s—she used the ultrasound and, and... just over this one spot... there was a heartbeat, John... A heartbeat," the detective sniffled, trying to calm himself. "And I... I just couldn't... Because, for some reason, with that tiny beating... I realized that it was coming from a little person, John. Inside of me. An incredibly small... defenseless... human being. And I just... I couldn't bear to go through with it..."

John listened carefully and watched with soft eyes, not used to seeing his friend so unwound. Taking at it as encouragement, Sherlock continued. His breathing slowly returning to normal as he spoke his thoughts aloud.

"It was so small, John," he whispered, a thin hand absentmindedly moving to rest across his stomach. "Its heart sounded so tiny and light. And I couldn't help but feel... protective of it, somehow. Almost as if I was the only one who could shield it; I felt like I should protect it. I just couldn't do it... I am many things, John. But a murderer is not one of them..." Realizing that he had been cradling his still-flat stomach, Sherlock quickly let his hand fall, face flushing light pink.

"I'm so sorry this all happened in the first place," John said simply, reaching forward to place a gentle hand to his friend's arm. "I am... And there's no need to feel embarrassed. A little emotion now and then isn't a bad thing."

Sherlock managed a small chuckle at this, giving the doctor a thankful smile.

"So," John sighed, pulling his hand away, in an attempt to lighten the mood, "you're really doing this, then? Having a baby?" Sherlock wiped away the remainder of the tears on his cheeks and then nodded. "Right, then... Wow." With a soft chuckle, John reclined back in his chair and then heaved a sigh. "Well, do you have any questions?"

Quickly collecting himself, Sherlock thought for a moment. "It... I saw it move. On the screen, I mean. But I couldn't feel anything."

"No," John chuckled, leaning back in his own chair. "You won't be able to until about week 17 or so. Though, typically thinner wom... People tend to feel the kicks sooner.

"John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving the doctor an eye roll. "You can say women. I'm not going to break. In fact, I'd prefer you use the term women, so as to be more statistically accurate. Go on. Tell me everything that's going to happen. I want to know. I... Ahem. Must admit that I am not quite as knowledgeable in this area as I am in most."

"Oh. Well..." Heaving a sigh, John crossed his legs, linking his fingers atop the arm of the chair. "I suppose the most obvious thing is the growth around the stomach. You have a rather long torso, so the bump shouldn't be quite as noticeable as it would on an average woman. Oh! And from now on, you must start to eat more. You have another person to feed now. God knows the poor thing is probably already starving. Next, I suppose—"

"Wait, wait. How does the child get sustenance, and what does that have to do with me?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"Oh," John sighed, momentarily taken aback as it occurred to him that the detective obviously didn't know much, if anything about a child in the womb. "There's something called an umbilical cord. That feeds into the baby, providing it with the nutrition it needs so it can grow. However, it takes what it needs from your diet, hence the need for you to actually eat." The doctor gave his friend a knowing smile, which was returned by quick quirk of the detective's lips.

"Noted. Will we be able to continue our work?"

"Well we certainly won't be able to go chasing criminals around the streets of London, no. And to be honest, as the pregnancy progresses, you might not want to continue working."

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously, face clearly expressing his shock that John could even suggest such a thing. "Why would I not want to continue my work?"

"Well, it's possible you may want to, I was merely making a suggestion. Don't worry, don't worry. It's just that working that much might become a little tiresome after awhile. And I think you might find that you'll prefer to take a few a few breaks every now and again, that's all. Don't freak out," he chuckled.

"Fine. And the sickness?"

"Just differs. It should end in the next couple of weeks."

"I see," Sherlock murmured, gaze falling to the floor as he steepled his hands, pressing them to his lips.

"Hey. It'll be all right. I promise," John reassured gently, giving his friend a warm smile. "Would you like a few moments to yourself?"

"Please."

"Right. I'll go out and get food. Anything sound good?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, already slipping away into his thoughts.

"Right," John chuckled, turning around and hurrying out of the flat.

 

 

**8 weeks**

Several days later, Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin as he attempted to undo the mystery of a case. With a loud huff at have been stumped once again by the case, Sherlock shoved himself away from the couch, frowning as he ruffled his fingers through his raven curls.

"John?" he called, agitated, standing up and throwing his robe behind him as he paced. "John!" When no response came, the detective assumed his flat mate had left, but would probably be back shortly.

Deciding he needed to clear his head, and far too busy (lazy) to bother with getting dressed to go outside, Sherlock decided he would merely have to resort to taking a shower in an attempt to help his thoughts. Stomping as he went, the detective hurried into the bathroom and switched the water on, enjoying the constant sound of the droplets hitting the surface of the shower.

Putting a momentary pause on the case, Sherlock quickly tugged off his shirt and made to pull of his trousers, but stopped suddenly as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Breath halting to a painful stop in his throat, the detective moved closer, eyes staring intently at his stomach; at the slight bulge of skin around his middle.

Trying to catch his breath as he stared at his abdomen, Sherlock felt a faint fluttering in his chest, as he absentmindedly cradled the tiny bulge... The evidence of his child.

"Oh," he sighed, almost in amazement as he flattened his palm over the skin. Tearing his eyes away from the reflection, Sherlock turned his gaze to his stomach, watching in sheer wonder as he brushed his thumb across the pale flesh. "So you're really in there, hmm?" he murmured quietly, staring down at his middle as he continued to stroke his thumb over the bump. "Amazing."

Keeping his palm flattened across his abdomen, Sherlock quickly shed his pants and trousers and slipped into the shower, enjoying the soothing feel of the warm droplets on his skin.

The detective kept finding himself touching his stomach, cradling it, caressing the skin.

With an almost embarrassed huff of breath, Sherlock quickly exited the shower, not wanting to admit to himself that he may be becoming attached to the unwanted child forming in his middle. Lips quirking up as he glanced at the swell of his stomach in the mirror, the detective quickly dried himself off and threw on his robe, not even bothering to get properly dressed.

Ignoring how strangely noticeable his stomach was feeling, Sherlock padded into the kitchen and paused in the doorway, remembering what John had told him about needing to eat more to help the baby. With a soft groan and an eyeroll, the detective hurried towards one of the cabinets and pulled out a loaf of unopened bread, knowing that even though he was not hungry (he never really was nowadays), he should eat something.

Trying to ignore the way he had absentmindedly brushed his fingertips across his stomach, Sherlock opened the plastic and pulled out two slices. "Forcing me to eat," he mumbled unhappily as he shoved the bread into the toaster.

Drumming his fingers against the countertop, Sherlock waited impatiently until the bread finished, then quickly snatched it from the toaster and threw it on a plate.

Scowling, the detective made his way into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch, taking a quick bite of the plain toast as he went. "You know, I have a feeling you're going to cause a lot more problems than you are going to solve," he murmured down to his stomach as he tore off another piece of the bread.

Trying to ignore the compulsive urge to touch his middle, Sherlock quickly finished his toast and then placed the empty plate on the floor, not wanting to waste the energy to get up and put it in the sink.

With a small sigh, the detective slowly rolled onto his back, pulling his legs onto the couch.

Remembering that he'd left his laptop nearby, Sherlock stretched back and quickly grabbed the slender computer. "Let's see," he murmured absentmindedly, quickly starting it up and typing into the search box: step-by-step guide for pregnancy. Embarassed at his lack of knowledge on the subject, he quickly clicked on the first site and clicked on the section for weeks 7-10.

Eager for information, Sherlock scanned the information, barely noticing as one of his hands slid down to splay over his stomach.

"What?" he murmured out loud as he reached a section on women's breasts have a tendency to expand during this time of pregnancy. Quickly shoving the laptop away, Sherlock practically tore open the front of his robe and stared down at his chest with wide eyes.

"Thank God," he sighed in relief upon seeing that he was still perfectly flat, toned and normal. Taking a deep breath of relief, Sherlock pulled the computer back up and scrolled down. He paused, almost smiling as he read that the baby's hands can now bend at the wrists and was about the size of gum ball.

Somehow, knowing that something as simple as bending a wrist was considered an accomplishment only solidified in the detective's mind how fragile the little being inside of him was; how much the tiny human relied entirely on him.

Sliding the computer onto the ground, Sherlock carefully pulled open his robe and stared down at the slight bulge of his stomach, which as he laid on his back was much less noticeable.

Watching as his stomach moved up and down with each steady breath, the detective felt a strange flutter of paternal love flash across his chest and down to his stomach. "Amazing," he whispered, shocked that such an incredibly tiny person—barely even that yet—could bring out such feelings in him. "How do you do that?" he asked, still staring down at his abdomen in awe. "You barely even exist... And yet I feel... How do you do that?"

Eyes crinkling at the corners as a rare smile graced his lips, Sherlock laced his fingers across his stomach and leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the arm. Staring at the ceiling, the detective quickly pulled his robe over his abdomen, almost as if he was worried the baby would become cold, and then wrapped his arms protectively around his middle before closing his eyes, pressing his fingers protectively against his stomach.

 

 

John returned home from surgery sooner than usual. Quickly dropping his keys into his pocket, the doctor hurried up the stairs, calling, "Sherlock, have you seen Lestrade today? He's been..." John paused in the doorway, frozen by the sight of Sherlock curled up on the couch, arms wrapped protectively around his middle as his slender body pressed against the back of the lounge.

In the many years John had been Sherlock's flatmate, he had never once seen the detective willing take a nap. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock had slept at all!

Smiling at his friend, the doctor quickly turned, found a blanket and moved back towards the couch, taking a moment to pause and see if Sherlock would wake. When the detective merely continued to rest, body rising and falling with each gentle breath, John hurried forward and carefully draped the fabric of his friend's robed body.

Chuckling softly at how out of place Sherlock seemed, but smiling at how the pregnancy already seemed to be changing him, John quickly glanced at the detective's slender fingers, curled against his stomach and then turned, heading into the kitchen to make dinner, still smiling to himself.


	3. A Sensation

**10 weeks**

"We're going to need to tell people eventually, you know that, right?" John asked cautiously, gazing at his friend's pacing form.

"Hmm," Sherlock huffed, tightening his scarf around his neck as he continued to pace back and forth, waiting anxiously for a call from Lestrade. "Why?"

"Because they deserve to know, Sherlock. And besides, like it or not, there will come a time when you won't be able to hide it," John said thoughtfully, raising an eyebrow at his flat mate.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly as he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. "We're on our way," he said into the phone before turning on his heel and quickly flying down the stairs, coat billowing behind him as he went.

"Of course." Rolling his eyes after the detective, John pushed himself out of his chair and hurried down the stairs.

Once John and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, after a brief overview from Lestrade, the detective hurried through a series of passageways until he reached the victim, a young woman. Pausing in the doorway, Sherlock made a gesture behind him that signaled that John and Lestrade, who had been following close behind, were to pause and be silent.

Steel-grey eyes quickly scanning over the scene and assessing all of the details and deductions flooding his ever-active mind, Sherlock slowly stepped into the room, long coat swishing gracefully behind him. "How long?"

"Two days," Lestrade said quietly, watching the detective with careful eyes.

"Good. She wasn't murdered here."

"How—"

"The floor, Lestrade. Think." Giving a submissive wave of his hand, Sherlock hurried forward and knelt down in front of the body, pulling out his magnifying glass. Catching a whiff of an unusual scent, the detective bent down and paused just above the young woman's back, inhaling in an effort to locate the smell.

Suddenly, with a small shudder, Sherlock pulled away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and quickly fled towards the door, uttering a quick, "Excuse me, please," to Lestrade as he left. This would be the fourth time the detective had gotten sick while at a crime scene.

Knowing his friend's morning sickness had become worse in the past few days, John stared sadly after Sherlock's fleeting rom, almost feeling sorry for the stubborn git.

"John."

The doctor was pulled out of his thinking by Lestrade's voice. John froze as he saw the look on the DI's face, and knew that he would no longer be able to keep Sherlock's pregnancy a secret; Lestrade clearly thought something was up.

"Tell me."

Sighing deeply, John glanced around, and, seeing all of the crime scene workers, gestured to an empty room and ushered the Inspector in, closing the door behind the two of them.

"All right," he sighed, placing his hands on his hips and glancing quickly at Lestrade. "Do you remember, several weeks back, the Moran case? Where we found Sherlock?"

"Of course," Lestrade answered quickly. "How could any of us forget it?"

"Right... Well, it appears Moran... He sexually assaulted Sherlock."

"Oh God," Lestrade sighed sadly, eyes softening as he put two and two together. "It's affected him a lot, then, hmm?"

"More than you think," John chuckled darkly.

"How do you mean?"

"Well... It would appear Sherlock... Is one of the few men in the world who carries the gene for... Male pregnancy. And, it would seem Moran..."

"No. What?" Lestrade practically gasped, hands freezing on his hips as he stared incredulously at the doctor. "Sherlock's pregnant?"

"Yes," John sighed sadly. "But please don't... He's incredibly self-concious enough as it is."

"Of course, but I mean... Are you sure, John?"

"I'm the one who saw the baby and figured it out; I'm sure."

"Wow... Do you think it's a good idea? I mean... Will the baby be all right, given his lifestyle?" Lestrade asked carefully, watching the door behind John, as if he was expecting Sherlock to burst through the doors at any moment.

"Should be. I mean, he's eating more, actually resting during the day. Though I suspect that's more nature taking over than it is him... And from the few times I've seen the baby, it looks healthy; no visible deformities or abnormalities that I could see."

"Okay. How far along is he?"

"Ten, eleven weeks."

Gaze falling to the ground, Lestrade merely sighed quietly, taking a moment to process this new information. After all, Sherlock was practically like a son to him. Before John had entered the detective's life, Lestrade was the one who helped keep Sherlock on track; he was the one who had gotten him off drugs and helped him stay clean. And he couldn't help but feeling sad, and almost guilty for what Sherlock had been going through these past few weeks.

"How has he been handling it?"

"Pretty well, actually. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was becoming attached to the little thing."

"Hmm," Lestrade hummed softly, managing a small smile at the thought.

"Oh. I think he's coming back; I can hear Donovan yelling," John chuckled, opening the door and gesturing for the Inspector to head out.

"Hope he's all right," Lestrade sighed, in reference to the morning sickness.

"Yeah. It's gotten much worse in the past few days; most smells bring it on now. But it should end soon," he said, hurrying after Lestrade and into the room with the body. Just in time, too, as moments later Sherlock entered, hands linked behind his back.

"Apologies," he murmured, hurrying back towards the body. He paused, however, as Lestrade passed by.

Knowing Sherlock instantly knew, the Inspector simply gave his friend a small smile. Unable to hold the detective's analytical gaze, however, his eyes fell to the body, gesturing loosely towards the woman.

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, quirking an eyebrow at Lestrade and shooting a quick glare to John before hurrying towards the body, and rambling off all sorts of conclusions, and, eventually, the murderer.

 

 

"Sorry," John muttered, embarrassed, upon entering the cab after his friend.

"It's fine. He needed to be told anyway," the detective replied cooly. "221 Baker Street."

"I suppose we should be telling Mrs. Hudson, then," the doctor tried carefully.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, pulling out his phone.

John watched silently as the detective's deft fingers quickly glided across the keys, vaguely wondering what he was looking up.

"Would you like me to?" he asked as the cab pulled up outside the flat.

"If you could," Sherlock murmured in reply, quickly shoving his phone back into his pocket as he slid out of the cab.

"Right."

"Thank you, John."

The doctor gave his friend a warm smile as they walked through the front door. "I'll uhh... Just be a moment then." With a quick nod his head, John hurried to the right, heading down to Mrs. Hudson's, while Sherlock turned, making his way up to 221B.

Finding he was mildly hungry, the detective quickly threw together a sandwich and collapsed onto the couch as he finished eating, wondering how Mrs. Hudson would react.

Sherlock frowned slightly as he felt his eyes beginning to droop with tiredness, though he had just slept hours before. With a small huff of breath and an eye roll, Sherlock quickly slid out of his coat, letting it drop to the floor as he gave in and rolled over, closing his eyes as a wave of tiredness and unfortunately, nausea, washed over him.

"Why must you do that?" he sighed, gazing down at his middle with tired eyes. Despite himself, though, the detective's lips quirked up into a small smile as he snaked a hand around his stomach, closing his eyes and leaning into the back of the couch as he tried to ignore the nausea flooding his stomach.

Just as he was getting comfortable, ready to slip into a nap, Sherlock was jolted awake by a loud cry from downstairs. "Sherlock!"

Groaning as he moved, the detective slowly rolled off the couch and straightened, smoothing down the front of his suit just as Mrs. Hudson cleared the landing, quickly running into the flat.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she cried happily, rushing forward and pulling Sherlock's much-taller form into a tight hug.  
"Oh, I just knew something was up!" she chuckled, releasing the detective and staring up at him with watery eyes. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Sherlock, already tense from the rare physical affection, managed a small smile for his landlady. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just a little... A little sick every now and then," he said quietly, glancing back towards the stairs as John hurried into the flat.

"Sorry," the doctor mouthed, giving his friend a small smile, which was returned by a grateful twitch of his flat mate's lips.

"Poor thing," Mrs. Hudson cooed, already fussing over Sherlock. "Have you been eating enough? You know that—"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."

"Good. Oh, Sherlock... I'm happy for you. Really," she whispered, reaching up to gently pat Sherlock on the cheek.

"Thank you," the detective murmured in response, smiling under her warm, comforting touch.

"You're most certainly welcome, dear. Oh! John mentioned you're about eleven weeks along! Are you showing yet?" she asked excitedly, placing a tender hand over Sherlock's stomach.

At her words, the detective's alabaster cheeks flushed a dark red, and his eyes quickly flitted to John in the doorway, gaze falling to the ground as he saw the doctor smirking at him. Chuckling to himself, and knowing he was not wanted at the moment, John quickly slipped away into the kitchen and made sure the door was shut.

Sighing in relief as the doctor disappeared into the kitchen, though the blush was still dark on his cheeks, Sherlock turned back to Mrs. Hudson, finding her warm hand covering his stomach oddly comforting in a motherly sort of way. "Yes," he whispered, quickly glancing at the door to make sure John had not peeked out.

"Oh, dear... Are you excited at all?"

Embarrassed and overwhelmed at having to express so many emotions at once, Sherlock just gave the landlady a simple smile in response, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm just trying to get through this much," he managed.

"Of course. I remember," she chuckled, pulling her hands away and wrapping them around herself in a tight hug. "Sorry if I embarrassed you, dear. I'm excited, that's all..."

"That's all right, Mrs. Hudson. I understand. I'm just... Still adjusting... To it all, I suppose. I'm uhh... Not—ahem—I mean, I don't—"

"It's alright, dear. Trust me. Oh! I've got pasta cooking downstairs, so I need to head back down. But, Sherlock? If you need anything... Ever... Don't hesitate to ask, alright? There's absolutely nothing to feel embarrassed about."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, giving his landlady a warm smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

With one last pat on the detective's shoulder and a sweet smile, Mrs. Hudson turned, and hurried out of the flat.

"Sorry," John chuckled lightly as he re-emerged from the kitchen. "You know, you don't need to get embarrassed about those sort of things around me. I'm here for you... To help," the doctor said earnestly.

"Yes... Ah, thank you, John."

"Of course. So... Are you showing?" John asked, unable to help his smile.

"Please, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving the doctor a royal eye roll.

"So that's a yes?"

"No!" the detective cried indignantly, collapsing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around his middle as he curled into the corner.

"Right," John laughed, crossing his legs as he sat in his chair, giving Sherlock a knowing smile.

"Fine. A little," Sherlock huffed, pressing closer to the back of the couch.

"Again, you don't need to be embarrassed, Sherlock. I'd be worried at this point if you weren't showing. Just think, in a few more weeks you'll be able to feel it."

"Feel it?" Sherlock asked, straining as he turned, trying to see John over his shoulder.

"Of course. It will be big enough in a little while that you'll actually be able to feel inside when it moves. On top of that, we'll soon be able to distinguish the sex. Have you thought about names if it's a boy or a girl?"

Suddenly, at John's words, Sherlock froze, body flooding with warmth as it occured to him that the tiny person inside of him would turn out to be a boy or a girl... A son or a daughter. Suddenly, with this small realization, a wave of love for the baby resting in his abdomen washed over him and his heart seemed to skip a beat in his chest as he realized—truly—for the first time that the baby growing in his stomach was his child... To love and to raise... To take care of. To protect.

"I'll be able to feel it soon?" Sherlock breathed.

"Yeah. And soon after, others will be able to as well. By week 21, though, it'll probably be moving so much you'll wish it would calm down a bit."

"That's... Amazing," Sherlock sighed, so immersed in his thoughts and realizations he didn't mind that John was watching.

"I know," John whispered, smiling fondly at his friend. "Human life is amazing. What's even more amazing is that you have one growing and living inside of you."

"Yes, I agree. Amazing... John, I don't want to know."

"Want to know what?" the doctor asked confusedly, brows drawing together as he gazed at his friend, noting how the detective's fingers were cradling his stomach.

"The sex. I would rather wait until it's born... I want it to be a... A surprise."

"Ahh," John sighed, giving his friend a warm smile. "I see. Well... Do you mind if I find out? I'm not sure I could wait."

Sherlock pondered for a moment, slender fingers absentmindedly stroking his stomach. "No, I don't mind. Just so long as you don't tell me."

"Deal."

 

 

**13 weeks**

"JOHN!"

The doctor was jolted awake from his nap by a strangled cry from his flat mate. Frowning as he sat up in his chair, John hurried into Sherlock's room to find the detective, looking utterly broken, staring at a floor-length mirror with his favorite purple button-up draped over his shoulders.

"Sherlock, what—? Oh," the doctor sighed, almost chuckling as he realized what the problem was.

"It won't fit," Sherlock all-but-sobbed, eyes quickly filling with tears as he tried once again to do the tight shirt around his middle. "It just won't!" With a small, saddened huff of breath, the detective collapsed onto the bed and buried his face in the pillows, curling into a pathetic ball as he started to cry, sobbing into the soft fabric.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, smiling sadly at his friend's sad form. Unsure of how to comfort his clearly hormonal friend, the doctor moved towards the bed and placed a hesitant hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It'll be alright. You'll just need to get some new clothes, that's all."

"Oh!" the detective sobbed into the pillows, body shaking as he reached up, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "But I don't want new clothes!"

"Sherlock," John chuckled, unable to stop himself from laughing at his dramatic flat mate. "I promise, it'll be alright. Nobody will even notice."

"It's not just that!" Sherlock cried quickly sitting up in the bed and pulling away his shirt just enough to see the bottom of his stomach. "Look!"

Squinting, John bent down and stared at the pale expanse of skin the detective was pointing to. "I don't see—"

"It's a stretch mark!" Sherlock spat, jabbing distastefully at the "mark."

"Uhh... I don't see anything, Sherlock." A glare. "Okay, okay! But I'll tell you what. How about I go out tonight and get some cream that'll help prevent any further "marks," okay? Yes?" he asked gently, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Alright," Sherlock sniffled, giving a feeble nod of his head. "Thank you, John."

"It's okay, Sherlock... You're welcome. Remember, I'm here to help."

 

 

**16 weeks**

When John came home with several tubs of ice cream, per the request of Sherlock, he found the detective pacing vigorously back and forth around the flat, hands pressed to his stomach as he muttered to himself.

"Waiting for something?" the doctor chuckled, quickly tucking the sweets into the freezer.

"Internet says sixteen weeks," Sherlock mumbled absentmindedly, glaring down at his stomach as he turned on his heel, turning back to pace into the sitting room.

"Sixteen weeks for what? Feeling the baby? Sherlock," John chuckled, grabbing a quick drink before entering the sitting room, watching as his friend paced back and forth. "That's just a guide. It doesn't mean it's going to happen to you as soon as you've hit sixteen weeks. Chances are, since you've never been pregnant before, you'll feel the baby at closer to seventeen or eighteen weeks."

"That's too long!" Sherlock groaned, pushing his robe behind him as he paused his pacing, falling back onto the couch. "Fine," he huffed eventually. "Did you get the ice cream?"

"Yes. It's uhh... In the fridge," John almost laughed, gesturing with his head to the kitchen.

"Excellent." Lips twitching up into a half-smile, Sherlock quickly flew to the kitchen, and pulled the tub from the freezer, not even bothering to get a bowl, and grabbed a spoon before carrying the carton back to the sitting room, already tucking into the ice cream.

John watched, still not used to seeing his friend eat so willing, as the detective paced around the sitting room, taking bite after bite of the creamy sweet.

"Do please stop staring, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, not even bother to look up as he shoveled another spoonful into his mouth. "It's not as if I can help it."

"I didn't say anything," the doctor chuckled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

"Do not forget: you are the one who is always telling me I need to eat more. Do stop being hypocritical."

"Sorry!" John laughed, watching with a small smile as Sherlock quickly finished most of the tub.

"Have you told Mycroft yet?"

"Oh please," Sherlock groaned, quickly discarding the almost-empty carton and pacing back and forth around the sitting room. "It's not as if he doesn't already know. Mycroft always seemed to know my secrets before I did. He already knows."

"Okay... Molly?"

"Already told her."

"What? When?"

"Last week at Bart's."

"Oh. Okay... Then I think that should be all our close friends. Do you want to tell anyone else?"

"No," Sherlock answered almost immediately, wrapping his long arms around his middle and frowning as he plopped down on the couch.

"Okay... Nobody else..."

"Good."

 

 

**18 weeks**

"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered to himself as he tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find a comfortable position. He had already woken up two times, having moved onto his back and stayed there for too long. "Sleeping should not be this difficult! Especially since you're the one who constitutes I get more," he sighed, shoving a pillow between his knees as he rolled onto his side.

Finding the position to be more comfortable than any of the previous, Sherlock sighed gratefully and closed his eyes, that recently-familiar feeling of exhaustion creeping through his veins. "Sorry," he murmured, letting a hand slide down his stomach and rest comfortably over the bump on his middle.

Then, almost as if in response to his apology, there came a tiny fluttering, almost like a popping from underneath his skin.

Eyes flying open at the sensation, Sherlock froze, waiting silently for more of the popping to see if it was more than just his imagination...

And then, just a few moments later, there came more movements, a sudden flurry of little pops and flutters under his skin.

Gasping slightly at the sensation, the detective quickly sat up in bed and pulled his shirt off, cradling the gentle swell of his bare stomach in his hands. "You moved!" he whispered in amazement, gasping once again as another flurry of movement sent a flood of warmth coursing through his entire body, which eventually rested comfortably in his chest.

"You... You're alive," Sherlock breathed staring with wide eyes at the pale expanse of skin. "You're really there. Growing. You... You moved," he sighed, a wide grin gracing his cupid's bow lips. "You're... You're... I don't know if it's even possible... But I do believe I love you," Sherlock whispered, chest heaving with elated breaths as he stared down at his middle, smiling as he felt a few more flutters in his abdomen. "You're simply amazing."

A swell of love warming his chest, Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, unable to help himself from smiling as the reality of the situation weighed down on him... He was having a baby. Proof of which was the fluttering of the child's movement in his middle. "I'm here," he whispered, vaguely remembering that a child in the womb can feel it's parent's emotions, and hear when a mother's heartbeat would speed up; the baby could feel the anxiety. "I'm here."

Smiling, and hoping to provide some sort of calm for his child, Sherlock gently stroked his fingertips over the pale skin of his stomach and slowly rolled onto his slide, slotting the pillow back between his knees. "I'm right here," he murmured, deep, baritone voice resonating through the quiet room.

The detective couldn't help but smile as the flurry of movement died down, glad that he had provided some sort of calm for his child. "Shh... I'm just here, love."

Almost unable to believe that he'd said that, and smiling fondly at the thought, Sherlock curled around his stomach, quickly falling into a deep sleep.


	4. Just A Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So, I've been studying for finals like crazy (which are taking place today and tomorrow), and in an effort to take my mind off the craziness, I wrote up a cute little fluffy chapter. Hope you like it! Have a great week!

**19 weeks**

"John, will you please hurry up?"

"Agh, I'm trying, I'm trying," the doctor cried, quickly fumbling with the keys before sliding one into place and clicking open one of the hospital doors.

"Finally!" Sherlock groaned, quickly pushing past his friend and hurrying into the room, coat billowing gracefully behind.

"Impatient much?" John chuckled, quickly clicking on the light switch.

"Only when it's in the middle of the night, and I am thoroughly exhausted and not in the best of moods," the detective hissed between his teeth, quickly yanking off his coat and tossing it onto one of the mint-green hospital chairs.

Suppressing a smile, John merely gave a quick nod of his head and hurried over to the cabinet, rummaging around for an ultrasound machine. Though he would never admit it, the doctor was secretly pleased that Sherlock would only allow him to do the ultrasounds and check-ups (in the middle of the night) so no one else would see or know. It meant quite a bit that the detective trusted him that much.

"Just... Hop up?" Sherlock asked awkwardly, gesturing to the cot.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. I will need you to take your shirt off, though."

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled unhappily, turning his back to the doctor. With a small frown, the detective quickly yanked off his t-shirt (one of the few left that still fit) and then immediately crossed his arms over his belly, suddenly feeling incredibly embarrassed. His steadily growing middle, which had once been flat and sculpted, was now bulging with the growth of his child.

"Right, then. Up you go," John said cheerfully, pulling his friend from his thoughts.

"What? Oh. Yes."

Cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment, and keeping his arms wrapped so they were still concealing his bump, Sherlock turned and hopped onto the cot (as best he could), still not removing his hands.

"Okay. Here we go," John sighed gently, pulling a chair over and sitting down as he pulled out the gel. "Ready?" he asked, gesturing in a way that suggested Sherlock was to remove his arms.

"Oh. Well—I—can't you just—"

"Sherlock?" John asked softly, furrowing his brows at his flat mate. "Are you really embarrassed?"

The light pink flush turned into a dark red, and Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line as he stared at the floor, arms curling even tighter around his middle.

"Sherlock," John murmured gently, placing a comforting hand on the detective's arm. "Look at me," he urged, slowly pulling one of Sherlock's arms away from his stomach.

Worrying his lip with his teeth, Sherlock reluctantly turned, forcing himself to meet the doctor's eyes.

"Sherlock, you have absolutely nothing to feel silly about, do you hear me?" John murmured gently, giving the detective a pat on the arm. "What you're doing, what's happening to you, it's completely normal and natural. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your stomach is growing and that's supposed to happen, I promise. It's showing that your baby is growing and doing well. Okay? Don't feel silly about it, all right?" John murmured softly, giving his flat mate a reassuring smile and a quick pat on the hand.

Gazing earnestly up at his friend, Sherlock managed a small smile. "Thank you, John," he whispered, sliding his hand from his stomach to expose the small baby bump. "Sorry."

"That's all right. Ready?" John murmured, pulling out the gel from its slot.

"Yes."

"Good." Gazing at the ultrasound screen, the doctor slowly squirted some of the gel onto Sherlock's stomach, which received a quick intake of breath, and then massaged the liquid-substance into the detective's skin before swiping the wand across the pale flesh. "Ah. There we are," he whispered, smiling at the screen as the image of the baby showed up.

Eager to see, Sherlock turned and stared at the screen, unable to help himself as the corners of his lips quirked up into a small smile. "Beautiful," he whispered, so quietly he was sure John hadn't even heard.

Still smiling, the doctor turned his attention to Sherlock, eyes softening as he saw the detective's smile, saw the utter amazement and joy dancing in his friend's usually cold and calculating eyes. "Yeah," he murmured, moving the wand to hear the baby's heartbeat.

Sherlock gasped quietly at the sound and couldn't help but grin lovingly at the image on the screen.

"Well," John sighed quietly, turning his attention back to the image. "Let's see… There's the little one's legs, you see?"

"Yes."

"And… There's its arms, its body. Looks like both of you are doing well."

"Look at its fingers," Sherlock murmured, making a gesture towards the screen "They're so…"

"Yes. I know. They're very tiny. And then there's the head."

Sherlock nearly gasped aloud as he saw his child's face. In the beginning, the baby had been moving, yet not in any distinguishable way. But now his baby's lips were moving back in forth in a movement that sent a paternal flutter through the detective's stomach and chest. "What… What's it doing?"

"It's practicing sucking," John chuckled fondly, smiling at the amazement in his friend's eyes.

Sighing in sheer wonder, Sherlock's striking eyes traveled from his baby's lips and looked at the entire image on the screen, his child's face. "Oh," he breathed, having never truly seen his baby's features. "Look at her… She's beautiful," he murmured aloud, mouthing hanging open slightly as he drank in the image of his child.

"She?" John chuckled, raising his eyebrows at his friend.

"What? Oh. Yes."

"But you don't even know what the gender is yet."

"No, but… I don't know, it's just a feeling," the detective murmured, keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

"Please," John scoffed. "It's not something you can just…" The doctor trailed away as he felt his heart all but melt at the fond, loving look in his flat mate's eyes. "All right, all right. Well… Let me just check." He squinted slightly at the screen and leaned forward. "Ah," he sighed softly, before a wide grin spread across his face. "You're sure you don't want to know?" he asked slyly, giving Sherlock a sideways glance. "Just to either confirm or disprove?"

"What?" the detective murmured absently, still staring in amazement at the ultrasound screen.

"The sex, Sherlock," John chuckled. "I can tell whether it's a boy or girl. You're sure you don't want to know which it is?"

"You can?" Sherlock gasped, tearing his eyes away from the screen to stare wide-eyed at the doctor.

"Of course. Would you like to know whether you're having a son or a daughter?" John asked gently, smiling fondly at the screen.

Turning his attention back to the image of his child, Sherlock took a deep breath, smiling at the baby. "No," he whispered, fighting the strong urge to cradle his stomach. "I don't want to know… Do you know?"

Smiling with soft eyes at his friend, John whispered a quiet, "Yeah. I know."

"Wait. Can I… Can I still call it a her?" Sherlock asked, staring nervous and wide-eyed at his flat mate.

"Of course," John chuckled gently, amazed at how incredibly innocent the detective looked and sounded. "You can call it whatever you'd like."

Sherlock sighed quietly to himself, feeling a bittersweet longing in the pit of his stomach to know the true sex of his baby. Swallowing the feeling, the detective gave a small nod of his head, scanning his eyes over the image, drinking in the amazingly beautiful sight, as he knew it was about to disappear. "I still think it's a girl."

"Uh-huh," John chuckled skeptically. "Ready?"

"Mmm."

"Alright," John whispered, slowly pulling the wand away and feeling a strange sadness as he saw the glow and joy dim in Sherlock's eyes.

Though the image was gone, the detective continued to stare at the blank screen, barely noticing as John started to wipe and clean the gel from his middle.

"Sherlock?" the doctor asked once he was finished. "You ready to go home?"

"What? Oh… Oh. Yes. I'm just… Yes."

"Good."

Taking a deep breath and placing a hand on his bare middle, Sherlock slowly slid off the cot and made his way towards his shirt and coat. Slipping the fabrics on, the detective tucked the long folds of the coat around himself and shoved his hands in the pockets, waiting patiently for John, lulled into a state of contentment by what he'd just witnessed on the ultrasound screen.

"Right, then. I think that's all. Ready?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, the corner of his lip twitching up into a tiny half smile as he allowed himself to press the palm of his hands to his stomach through the fabric of the pockets.

"Okay, then. Let's go!" John sighed cheerfully, tugging on his own coat.

"Yes. Oh... Yes," he added more firmly, trying to sound like his normal self.

The two hurried out into the brisk night air, and John hurriedly hailed a cab as he saw Sherlock tuck his coat even further around his middle.

Snow had just started to fall and the white, airy flakes were beginning to nestle themselves in the detective's perfectly groomed curls. John couldn't help but smile as he glanced over at his friend while the cab rolled up. Sherlock looked simply radiant; his usually sculpted face with its hard edges and sharp planes, was now soft with the hints of a smile playing over the detective's lips. His posture was completely relaxed, arms hanging loosely from his pockets, where usually every stance and position was precise, calculated, sharp.

Chuckling silently to himself, John opened the door and allowed Sherlock to slide in, quickly following suit.

"Hmm," the detective hummed tiredly to himself, quickly ruffling his raven hair to rid the snowflakes from his curls. He turned to John, and paused, letting his hand fall to his lap as he found the doctor staring at him. "What?" he asked accusingly.

"Hmm? What? Oh! Nothing, I was just uh... Sorry, nothing," John apologized quickly, turning back to the window as his cheeks flushed a light pink at having been caught staring at his friend.

"No, it's... Fine," Sherlock chuckled, voice a low rumble as he raised an eyebrow at his flat mate. "What was it?"

"Nothing, I was just... Uhh..."

"What?" Sherlock asked again, genuinely curious.

"I was just... You looked different, that's all. Happier... Almost radiant, if you'll please excuse the cliché."

"What cliché?" the detective asked confusedly, brows furrowing together.

"You know... Pregnant women are always described as looking radiant."

"Oh. Right," Sherlock mumbled, though it was clear he did not still quite understand.

"Nevermind," John chuckled. "You just looked different, that's all. It was a nice change."

"Ah. I see..."

Still smiling at his friend, John turned his attention to the window, and Sherlock quickly followed suit, gazing out at the freshly fallen snow. The detective barely noticed as he gave into the urge to touch his stomach, and gently slipped a few fingers inside his coat, allowing them to rest ever so slightly just above the tiny bump. Almost instantly, there was a small flutter of movement and Sherlock couldn't help but gasp out loud at the sensation, still unused to the feeling of someone, a baby, shifting around in his middle.

"You okay?" John asked worriedly, having heard the gasp.

"What? Oh. Yes, yes… I'm... It... She moved," Sherlock murmured, staring at his flat mate with wonder in his steel-grey eyes, lips parted slightly with a small smile.

"You did?" John cried excitedly, eyes falling to his friend's hidden stomach. "Is this the first time?"

"No, a few days ago I first felt it. But it hadn't moved again up until now."

"Ah," the doctor sighed in amazement. "That's incredible... What does it feel like?"

"Sort of like... A fluttering, gentle pops. I keep wondering if I've actually felt it, the movement is so quick and fleeting."

"Hmm. That's amazing, though. But it's also good news; right on track. Mean's the baby is doing well."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured just as the cab pulled up outside of 221B. The two hurried through the brisk night air and into the silent flat.

Sighing softly to himself, Sherlock quickly tugged off his coat and hung it on the back of the door. "I'm going to bed," he declared tiredly, suddenly remembering how exhausted he was now that he was wrapped in the darkness of the homely flat. "I must admit," the detective huffed, hurrying into the kitchen and grabbing a slice of bread. "I will not miss needing this," he stated, gesturing to the bedroom.

"Enjoy it," John chuckled, leaning against the doorway as he watched his flat mate butter the bread and then eat it. "Once the baby's here, you won't be getting much sleep at all."

"Mmm. Yes. Well. Goodnight." Not even bothering to wait for a response, the detective turned on his heel and hurried into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, John smiled smugly after his friend, his words eliciting a small chuckle: I will not be missing this... The doctor turned, heading up to his own room and smiled at the thought that Sherlock had all but admitted that he would be missing some things about the pregnancy...

Smiling at the thought, John closed his door and crawled into bed, too tired to bother taking his clothes off.

Downstairs, Sherlock was doing just that. Murmuring to himself, the detective slowly pulled off his shirt and trousers, finding that it was becoming more and more difficult to move quickly with the ever-growing bump now forming around his middle. Tossing the fabric away, Sherlock all-but-fell into the bed, quickly pulling the covers over his almost-naked body.

"You demand a lot, I hope you know that," he murmured affectionately, running his fingertips over the gentle swell of his stomach. The detective's breath caught in his throat as he was met with a flurry of flutters beneath his skin. "Beautiful." Smiling to himself, Sherlock rolled onto his back, knowing he would regret it soon, and reached down to pull out his laptop. Propping the computer up on his knees as that seemed to be more comfortable, the detective quickly pulled up one of the internet pages, the one that was now constantly on a pregnancy site. Sherlock clicked the next tab until the screen shifted forward to nineteen weeks and instantly started scanning information, eager to discover what was happening inside him.

The detective couldn't help but smile and absently cover his stomach with his slender fingers as he read that the baby was now about eight inches long. "You're so tiny," he murmured in amazement, subconsciously curling his fingers over the skin on his middle. Skipping over the section about things the mother would be experiencing, Sherlock's eyes quickly fell to an image at the bottom of the screen where he read that some believe the baby is able to hear a distorted version of their parent's voice. "You can hear me… You can hear me?" he spoke aloud, shoving the laptop away and gazing down at his bare stomach. "Oh uhh… Hello. I'm Sherlock. I'm your uhh… Father, I suppose. Hello. I don't… I'm afraid I don't really know what I'm doing. I do apologize for that… But, I think we'll be all right. I suppose soon you'll be meeting John. And Mrs. Hudson. They live with us. And then Lestrade… And Donovan and Anderson." A scoff. "I apologize in advance. Just don't listen to them when they speak, hmm?" the detective murmured. Yawning and the huffing slightly at how tired he felt, Sherlock closed his laptop and placed it on the ground.

With a sharp intake of breath at a sudden pain that coursed down his sides, Sherlock rolled onto his side, curling protectively around his middle. The pain was quickly replaced with a warmth, however as the soft fluttering of his child's movement in his middle made him smile. "So you really can hear me," he sighed in amazement, deep baritone voice rumbling through the room as he spoke. "I hope you like it," he chuckled, not even noticing when he closed his eyes as his arms curled around his middle. "You're going to be stuck hearing it for a while."

Then, almost as if in response to its father, there was another flutter of gentle kicks and movements. Gasping quietly again at the sensation, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as he tried to catch his newly-stolen breath. "Breathtaking," he whispered, smiling down at his concealed middle. "I'll assume that was a yes," the detective chuckled, squirming for a moment as he tried to find a comfortable position. "Goodnight," Sherlock whispered, running a thumb over his skin as he settled into the pillows, taking the opportunity to actually try and get a good night's sleep, having found a comfortable position. "Sleep well."

Quickly slipping away and giving into his own tiredness, Sherlock took a deep breath, finding a strange calm had washed over him as he continued to feel the tender flutters and pops underneath his skin...


	5. Movement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for the wait, but I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, and for those who had/are on break, it has been lovely, as well! Thanks all! (Oh! By the way, I apologize for any and all mistakes that will probably be found in this chapter. Please excuse! I will fix as soon as possible. Thanks, guys!)

**20 weeks**

"But, John!" Sherlock cried dramatically, stomping after the doctor. "Please, just one! I can't think!"

"No. No nicotine patches; they could harm the baby!" John countered, quickly throwing the box in the garbage bin. "No more. You've got take care of yourself."

"I have been—"

"Yes, you've been eating and resting, but it takes more than that! You also have to keep taking care of your body until—until its born," the doctor stumbled, having almost revealed the baby's gender.

Glaring at his flat mate, Sherlock straightened to his full height and crossed his arms across his chest. "Fine," he huffed eventually, hurrying into the sitting room and throwing himself (though not with his usual fervor) onto the couch, clothed only in his robe and a pair of his suit trousers.

"Git," John mumbled, following after and leaning against the doorframe. "Right, well I need to head out for a bit, all right? Be back in a few."

"Wait!" Sherlock called, quickly turning on the couch to glance at his flat mate.

"Yeah?"

"Peanut butter. Get peanut butter," the detective mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by the unusual craving. "And… Ranch dressing… Please."

"Sherlock. That's all right. I understand, it's not your fault. Of course I'll get some. Peanut butter and ranch dressing. Got it. Are you going to… Eat them together?" the doctor asked, unable to help his distaste at the thought.

"No," Sherlock scoffed, giving John a look that clearly said: how could you possibly suggest something so disgusting?

"All right, all right," the doctor chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Ranch and peanut butter. Got it. Anything else?"

"No, that's all. Thank you, John."

"Of course," the doctor murmured, giving his friend a supportive smile before turning and hurrying out the flat.

Sighing to himself, Sherlock quickly wrapped his robe around his middle and curled up into a ball in the corner of the couch, his entire lean body curling around his stomach. "Peanut butter?" he muttered aloud, speaking into the cushions. "I don't even like peanut butter." A huff. "Insufferable." Having nothing better to do, Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position and slid off the couch, chuckling aloud at the flurry of kicks, which had become much stronger, beneath his skin. "I know, I know. Sorry."

Groaning slightly at the effort, Sherlock squatted down behind his chair and pulled out his violin. "Hey, just give me a moment," the detective chuckled down to his middle upon receiving a sharp swipe under his ribs. Settling comfortable into the cushions of the couch, Sherlock situated his violin against his stomach, making accommodations for the protruding bump.

Worrying his bottom lip slightly with his teeth, Sherlock carefully situated the instrument and ran his fingers gracefully over the strings. "Hope you like music," he murmured affectionately, plucking out a few gentle notes. Almost instantly, as if in response to the music, there was a flurry of gentle flutters and kick.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped aloud, placing a few fingers to his middle before grinning fondly at the exposed skin. "You like music? Good. As do I. We'll get along quite nicely, I do believe." Smiling to himself, the detective returned his graceful fingers to the equally graceful instrument and began to slide and pluck them across the strings, playing out a gentle, airy melody.

Smiling and taking the gentle kicks to his middle as encouragement, Sherlock started to hum along with the melody he had composed, deep baritone voice rumbling about and filling the room. "Hmm," he hummed happily to himself as he finished the melody. "Lovely..." A chuckle. "Glad to see you agree." With a deep sigh, the detective placed the violin across his lap and leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the wall. "Ah. Thank you, love," he sighed as the flutters died down, allowing him a quick moment to rest, as it was becoming increasingly more difficult to sleep at night with the series of kicks seeming to grow in number at night.

 

 

John returned home with a few bags of shopping and quickly placed them in the kitchen before returning into the sitting room, jar of peanut butter and a spoon in hand. The doctor paused in the doorway upon seeing his friend, violin still resting neatly on his lap, completely passed out on the couch. "Poor git," he chuckled to himself, placing the jar and soon on the arm of his chair and silently moving over. John had guessed that Sherlock hadn't been sleeping very well at night, due to the activity of the baby; lately he'd been hearing the detective's light footfalls padding around downstairs at ungodly hours of the night, and he almost felt sorry for his friend. Here he was, actually trying to sleep, and the little being who was necessitating the need in the first place, would not allow it at natural times of the day.

Chuckling fondly to himself at at the thought, John carefully pulled the violin from Sherlock's lap and fingers, knowing that if it fell and broke, in his emotional state, the detective might literally have a panic attack. "There we are…"

Upon feeling the loss of space, however, Sherlock awoke with a soft intake of breath, his eyes fluttering open and then shut again as he squirmed on the couch, absentmindedly brushing a few fingers across his stomach, as if to make sure the baby was still there. "Hmm. John?" he mumbled groggily, rubbing a few fingers into his temple as he straightened and pulled his robe even further around his body.

"Yeah, it's me," the doctor chuckled, propping the violin up against the leg of his flat mate's chair. "I got your peanut butter and ranch."

"Oh. Uhm, thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled, shoving himself into a standing position before padding over to John's chair and snatching the tub of peanut butter and the spoon.

"Oh, by the way, Lestrade called. He said he's got a case that he wants you to—"

"What?" Sherlock asked, spinning on his heel to at his flat mate.

"Hey, hey, only if you're feeling up for it," John warned, raising an eyebrow at the detective.

"Not feeling up to it?" Sherlock scoffed, rushing into the kitchen and ditching the jar. "I haven't had a case in weeks, John!"

"Three days," the doctor muttered under his breath, withholding an eye roll.

"And it's about bloody time he called! Really, John, you must tell him that I'm not a china doll and I'm not going to break."

"You could always tell him yourself."

"Unlikely."

"Figured."

Humming in excitement to himself, Sherlock hurried into his room and quickly disrobed, much to the embarrassment of John, as he was not wearing much underneath, and then managed to get dressed in record time before quickly returning to the kitchen, still buttoning his suit. "Does it look all right?" he huffed, smoothing down the front of the fabric.

"Yes! You can't even tell," John scoffed, gesturing to his flat mate's still incredibly flat middle… Well, considering.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked worriedly. Toying with the hem of his suit jacket, the detective started to worry his bottom lip with his teeth.

"I'm sure. You look completely normal. Really," he added, hoping it would take away some of his friend's self consciousness.

"Mmm. Good. Yes, fine. Thank you. Right, then. Let's go!" Grinning excitedly to himself, Sherlock turned and quickly grabbed his coat, effortlessly slipping into the familiar fabric. "Come along, John!" he called, hurrying down the stairs.

"On my way," the doctor chuckled, smiling after his friend.

 

 

 

"Release the father from your custody; it wasn't him," Sherlock stated with a submissive wave of his hand as he walked over to the body resting on the ground.

"Wait, but... But he confessed," Lestrade tried to argue, though he was cut off with the detective's hand.

"He's protecting either the sister or mother," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly as he made to crouch down by the corpse.

John couldn't help but smile as he noticed the way his flat mate was kneeling, rather than balancing on the balls of his feet, as he usually did. In fact, the doctor had noticed that recently, most of Sherlock's movement had changed to, in one way or another, protect or shield his slowly-growing middle.

"John?"

"Hmm? What, yes?" the doctor stumbled, pulled from his thoughts.

"Do you see any hesitation marks?"

"Oh, um..." Bottom lip protruding slightly as he thought, John crouched down, taking the place where Sherlock had been, and examined the slashes on the body. "No, no hesitation marks, but it does look like—"

"Irrelevant. Either way, if the father had killed her, there would be hesitation marks, which, as John just clearly explained, there are none of. There is evidence, however, that there was some sort of rivalry between either the mother or sister. Ah! No, don't ask me how I know, I was just getting ready to explain it. Look at her nails. She's been chewing them. Only a close family disruption would illicit a nervous tick such as nail-biting. However, the only family members this poor girl has are her father, which we've just ruled out, so that leaves the mother or the sister. My guess is the latter, due to the response of the father. He would only become that protective of his own kin, as he feels she is his responsibility. There. Go make the proper arrests, Inspector."

"Oh. Uhh... Right, yes. I'm... I'm on it," Lestrade mumbled, giving a light shake of his head. John merely chuckled at the Inspector, shaking his head in a similar fashion at Sherlock's rapid explanation.

"Well, if that's all, then I think we'll be off. Come along, John. I have a jar of peanut butter waiting at home.

"Ah. I see," John chuckled, sharing a quick glance with Lestrade. "Cravings," he mouthed upon seeing the utterly lost look on the Inspector's face.

"Ah, I see. Poor sod. Tell Sherlock I said thanks," Lestrade chuckled, nodding towards the doorway Sherlock had just stomped out of.

"Will do. Bye." John hurried out of the building to find Sherlock had already called a cab and was waiting impatiently with the door open.

"Come along, John."

"Sorry, sorry," the doctor mumbled, quickly sliding in. "How are you feeling?" he asked once the cab had rolled to life.

"What?" Sherlock asked, giving his flat mate a look of utter confusion. "Fine?" he asked, rather than answered.

"Okay. I was just… Checking, that's all. Nice job with the case."

"Oh, please," the detective scoffed, giving a submissive wave of his hand. Not even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock folded his long fingers against his stomach and started to rub his thumbs up and down over the fabric protecting his middle. Not even skipping a beat, or noticing the fond smile on his flat mate's face, Sherlock quickly continued. "We agreed long ago that I would not be leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, and that," he spat distastefully, "was a three. At best… Oh, I know, I know," Sherlock murmured, though now he was talking to stomach, and the very persistent kicks he was receiving there.

"Kicking?" John chuckled softly, gazing at the way his friend was now cradling the small bump of his concealed stomach.

"Mmm," the detective hummed quietly, though the tiny smile in the corner of his lips was undeniable.

"I see… How's it feel?" John asked, genuinely curious.

"Incredibly unusual," Sherlock whispered, closing his fingers together again as the movement died down. "Imagine someone, an incredibly tiny human being growing inside of you—which is unusual enough on its own—kicking at your middle from the inside. It's incredible… And beautiful."

"Beautiful?"

"What?" Sherlock asked distractedly, blinking as he turned his attention to John and gave a few shakes of his head.

"You said beautiful."

"Did I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh. I suppose… I don't know. It's…" Stumbling over his words, Sherlock glanced quickly towards the cab driver and John noticed how the detective's cheeks were flushed a subtle pink.

"It's all right," the doctor chuckled, giving his friend a playful and reassuring swat on the arm. "You don't have to tell me. I understand. Here. I'll pay," he added, as the cab pulled up outside of Baker Street.

"Yes." Gathering himself, Sherlock gracefully slipped from the cab and hurried into 221B, coat billowing just as gracefully behind him.

"Thanks," John told the cabbie, before quickly following suit and making his way into the flat to find his friend had already shed himself of his belstaff and was tucking into the jar of peanut butter, dipping the spoon in.

"See you found the peanut butter," the doctor muttered smugly, quickly plopping down in his chair and snatching his computer.

"Piss off," Sherlock mumbled, lying back on the couch as he started eating at another spoonful.

"Sorry, sorry," John chuckled, clacking away at the keys as he started a new blog.

"No you're not."

"Nope! I'm not. It's payback, you know."

"What is?"

"Me making fun of your "condition" side effects." A scoff. "Really! Payback for all the times you've commented on my "lack of intellectual prowess" and my "obvious" stupidity. You get to make fun of me for not being as smart and quick as you… So, I get to make fun of your weird pregnancy cravings."

"… Logical," Sherlock muttered eventually, twiddling the spoon between his fingers as he drummed a few fingers atop his middle. "Writing up the case?"

"Mmm. And the one from earlier this week."

"Ugh, please. They were incredibly boring, what on earth is there to—"

"What, Sherlock? Sherlock?" Heaving a sigh and an eyeroll, the doctor looked up from his writing to see his flat mate, completely frozen on the couch, peanut butter completely forgotten, and his violinist's fingers hovering just over the gentle swell of his stomach. "Sherlock?" he asked, now genuinely concerned. "What's wrong, what's—"

"Get over here," Sherlock whispered breathlessly, lips parted slightly as he stared intently at his stomach, fingers still hovering.

"What, what is it?" Not expecting an answer, though, John quickly exited his chair and hurried over to the couch, squatting by his friends frozen form. "I don't understand, Sherlock. What is it?"

"Give me your hand," Sherlock gave in reply, quickly grabbing his flat mate's fingers and clutching them between his own. Working quickly with his free hand, the detective sat up and untucked his shirt, shoving the fabric up to expose his belly. "Feel," he breathed. And without further explanation, Sherlock pressed John's fingers to his middle, and flattened his palm over the back of his friend's hand before turning his attention to the doctor.

Thoroughly confused and only a little concerned, John was about to speak when he felt it... When he felt what was causing the look of pure wonder and excitement in Sherlock's eyes. A little thump against his palm… Coming from inside his friend's stomach… Coming from the baby he was carrying.

"Was that…?"

"Yes!" Sherlock gasped, a wide grin spreading across his face as removed his hand from John's to press it to his middle. "That was her, she… She moved. And you felt it," he breathed, struggling to catch his breath as another series of kicks pressed against his middle, inside and out. "She…"

"Yeah," John murmured, unable to suppress his own smile at the gentle thumps against his skin. "That's incredible."

"Yes. And beautiful… I can explain it, you know."

"Hmm? Oh. Explain what?"

"Why I said beautiful."

"Oh… Oh, right," John murmured absently, slowly pulling his hand from the taut skin of his flat mate's middle.

Smiling fondly to himself, Sherlock allowed the fabric of his shirt to drop down over his middle, though he kept his fingers firmly inside, not even realizing he was drawing patterns over the skin of his stomach. "It's… There are these moments," he began slowly, gazing at a point out the window. "Where there's no movement, there's no proof that there's anything happening, let alone growing, inside of you… Well, besides my stomach, that's is. Anyway, it's… Unnerving. And then suddenly, she moves. And it's… It's proof that she's in there… Moving. Alive. Safe. And it's beautiful because it is absolutely terrifying… To know that there's a tiny, defenseless human being growing inside of you. It's terrifying to know that the baby—your baby—depends completely and entirely upon you. It's my job to protect and care for her. So, I just… I suppose that when she moves, and I know that she's all right… It's beautiful. And relieving. I don't—it's strange and—a bit—umm," the detective mumbled, blushing at his own words. "I don't know."

"That's great, Sherlock," John murmured, smiling at his friend's soppy and (for a change) emotional explanation. "It's all fine."

"Yes, good. Ahem."

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" the doctor added, hoping to ease some of his friend's obvious embarrassment. "Thank you. For sharing that with me… It's incredible."

"Oh. Well… You're welcome. I suppose it's all of these bloody, stupid hormones. Turned me soft," Sherlock mumbled, quickly lying back on the couch and linking his fingers over his middle.

"Yeah… That's what it is," John whispered, chuckling to himself as he noticed that his friend's eyes were fluttering closed.

"Mmm. Perhaps," the detective murmured, rolling onto his side and wrapping an arm around his middle as he allowed his eyes to slide shut, having gotten no sleep the previous night. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock reveled in a series of gentle flutters underneath his skin, too soft to feel against the fingertips he had placed to his stomach.

Chuckling fondly at his now-slumbering friend, John pulled his laptop back to his lap and continued to update his blog, smiling at the incredibly intimate moment he'd just shared with Sherlock. He was discovering that he rather liked soft Sherlock. He nearly jumped at said person's voice, muffled by the cushions of the couch.

"Stop it. I can feel you smiling."

"Right," John grinned. "Sorry."


	6. Keeping Track

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this is a bit of a shorter chapter. I was going to add more to it, but unfortunately I'm going to be very busy here in the next few days, so I thought I would update sooner, rather than later, and just have a shorter, more fluffy chapter. =) Anyway, thanks to all who are following, reading, have favorited and reviewed! I really appreciate the support! Happy New Year, by the way (though, a little late)! Thanks, all! Hope you enjoy!

**23 weeks**

"Would you _please_ calm down?" Sherlock sighed, exasperated, as he squirmed on the bed, tangling a fist in his raven curls. "I understand that you're growing and excited, but must you move so much while I'm trying to sleep?" In response, the detective was met with a series of hard kicks to his middle. In spite of his frustration, Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the reassuring movement. "Calm down, love. Please?" he whispered pulling up his shirt to splay his fingers over the taut skin of his middle. Impossibly, though it was not a new sensation, Sherlock's breath still escaped him as he felt a gentle thumping against his hands, the pure feeling of it taking his breath away. "I do believe I love you, did you know that?" the detective murmured, gripping the headboard behind him as he released his stomach to sit up and slide off the bed. "I mean, I realize it may be irrational, seeing as we've not met yet. But… I don't know, I can't quite explain it," he whispered to his stomach, staring intently at the skin, as if wishing that if he stared long enough, he would be able to somehow see the baby. "I suppose… I don't know, really. I'm just quite fond of you, that's all. Maybe it's because you're essentially living inside of me. Moving, growing… _Being._ And not to mention, adding all sorts of weird and unusual hormones to my body. Hmm. That might be it. Either way, I am fond of you, I hope you know that… Lots of websites I've looked at say you can hear a distorted, fuzzy version of my voice and that speaking to you is supposed to help with in-womb development. Not sure what I think about that. _But_ , if it'll help, I suppose it can't hurt to try, hmm? I mean, I am a scientist, after all. I'd be disgracing all of the rules I hold dear if I was not to execute all available experiments." Smiling contently to himself as a strange flutter of an unfamiliar emotion traveled from the back of his neck and down to his stomach, Sherlock rubbed a few fingers across the pale skin of his protruding middle, amazed once again by the proof of the human life inside as it bumped against his hand.

"Beautiful. I'm quite anxious to meet you. Although, I would appreciate it if you could hurry up. I fear both of us may be running out of room, hmm? And, ahem, excuse me for saying so," he apologized guiltily, gazing down at his stomach, "but I have a certain physical figure to maintain. And, though I'm quite glad you're growing and umm… Everything… I am quite ready to meet you and regain my past… Figure," he admitted, somewhat sadly, shooting a quick glance towards his closet, where all of his original suits were hanging in preparation for after the birth of the baby.

Chuckling lightly as there was a small pause in the movement, Sherlock found his robe and quickly draped it over his still-lanky frame. "Of course; you choose _now_ to calm down. Do you realize how much effort it takes me to move around now? And it's all your fault," he murmured fondly to his stomach, cradling the curve in one of his hands as began to slowly pad around his room, the light footfalls filling the otherwise silent flat. "Eh, that's all right, I suppose. John claims it means you're doing well and growing, so... I'll take a thousand more sleepless nights if it means your safety… But don't tell _him_ I said that. It'll be the end of me," Sherlock chuckled lightheartedly, pressing the palms of his hand on either side of his middle. "Lovely… Oh! I've seen you, you know. On a sono-mono-gram-something-or-other. I never can remember… Anyway! I thought you looked simply spectacular," he whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he spoke to the wall. In response to the detective's soothing voice, the baby's kicks quickly died down. With a quick 'tsk' sound, a fond smile slowly quirked on the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I still can't get over how tiny you are… Though, admittedly, you _feel_ much larger than I know you actually are," he chuckled, absently brushing a few fingertips over the taut skin of his middle as he thought aloud, enjoying the reassuring flutters beneath his skin. "And I know you're a girl. John keeps trying to convince me that there's no possible way I can tell… But he'll see when I'm correct," Sherlock smirked contently.

Suddenly realizing he'd been talking to himself, the detective gave a sharp shake of his head, and then looked down to realize he was cradling his stomach. Smiling at the sight, Sherlock stood, keeping his hands firmly in place. "Sorry," he apologized softly, stroking a finger over his bellybutton. "I was talking aloud. You'll find I do that a lot. Helps me to think… Anyway! Come along. I'm hungry." Acting as if his baby had some say in the matter, Sherlock silently padded into the kitchen and pulled open a cupboard. "Toast… Or peanut butter," he mused aloud, glancing between the two. "My thoughts exactly." Giving a satisfied nod of his head, and deciding that the baby had somehow given him the answer, the detective eagerly reached for the peanut butter, grabbed a spoon and treaded into the sitting room, settling comfortably into the cushions of the couch.

"I'm going to get fat and it's all your fault," he grumbled as he pushed the spoon in to the bottom of the almost-empty jar. "I just hope you know that. It's your fault." Sherlock pointed accusingly at his middle, though he was smiling in spite of himself.

"Right, then. Time for an update." Taking one last spoonful into his mouth, the detective dropped the jar and utensil onto the floor and grabbed his computer. Groaning slightly as he rolled onto his side, Sherlock positioned the laptop on his hip. "Excellent."

 

 

John awoke to a completely silent flat. Yawning as he made his way down to the stairs, and assuming his flat mate was sound asleep in his room, the doctor made his way towards the kitchen but paused in the doorway upon hearing a gentle rustling.

Brows tugging together in mild confusion, John turned and paused in the doorway to the sitting room upon seeing Sherlock's tall form curled about the couch, a slender hand sprawled protectively over his bump, the two rising and falling in tandem as he slept.

Almost smiling at the sight, John took a careful step forward so as to get a better look at his friend's peacefully slumbering form. Placing his hands on his hips, the doctor paused to take a moment and really get a good look at Sherlock, and notice for the first time how his pregnancy had changed him.

The detective's features seemed as if they had softened; the lines and planes that usually sculpted his sharp features were nowhere to be seen, now replaced by subtle dips and curves. John noticed how the change made his friend seem younger, and more peaceful, now that the usually concentrated looks were no longer marring his features. The doctor's gaze quickly flitted to Sherlock's hand as the long fingers absently twitched on top of his belly, clutching at the skin there, as if the detective's subconscious needed to make sure all was well. Clearly satisfied, Sherlock's breathing quickly returned to normal and his fingers paused, gracefully curling back together.

John held his breath as the detective shifted on the couch, making room for his protruding bump, and curled against the back of the couch, mouth falling open as he sighed in his sleep, curling his arms protectively around his middle. John noticed for the first time, Sherlock's laptop perched precariously on his side, and hurried forward to catch the computer before it fell.

Mumbling to himself and silently scolding the detective, the doctor was about to close the laptop, but paused as he glanced at the screen. Balancing the computer on the palm of his hand, John quickly danced a few fingers over the trackpad, to make the screen brighter and blinked a few times as he saw a spreadsheet open. Daring a quick glance at Sherlock to make sure he had not woken up, John leaned further towards the computer, trying to get a better look at the tiny typing.

"Number of kicks," he murmured aloud, reading the different categories running up and down the left side of the spreadsheet. "Frequency… Strength?" Suddenly realizing, a wide grin spread across John's lips as he realized what he was looking at. Sherlock had been keeping track of the changes in his pregnancy, and, most recently, the number, frequency, and strength of the baby's kicks.

The doctor nearly laughed out loud as he saw: "Number of Stretch Marks: ZERO."

"Look at you," he whispered fondly, quietly so as not to wake his sleeping friend as he gave the detective a fond smile. "You'll make a fine dad," he concluded with a satisfied nod of his head as his gaze lingered on the careful hold Sherlock had around his bared middle. The doctor couldn't help but stare at the alabaster skin hidden under his friend's fingers, amazed that Sherlock—his smart-arse, 'I always know everything,' flat mate: Sherlock bloody Holmes—was growing a human life inside of him. A human life, John knew, the detective was quite fond of.

Smiling at the thought, John quickly found a blanket and draped it over Sherlock's peaceful form, giving his friend a quick pat on the arm. "Sleep well, mate," he murmured fondly, daring one last, quick glance at his flat mate's hidden fingers, which he knew were clutching protectively at his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open briefly at the movement and contact, but then quickly slid closed again as he curled (impossibly) even more around himself, returning to his peaceful slumber.

Smiling, John quickly slipped away into the kitchen, closing the door behind him, so as to give Sherlock as much time to sleep as possible, having noticed the way the detective was becoming more and more exhausted as the days wore on.

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a small shudder. Yawning, the detective stretched his lanky form out on the couch, toes touching the other end of the lounge as he awoke. Keen senses quickly thrumming to life, Sherlock froze, tugging his brows together as he became aware of something draped over him. Groaning softly as he opened his eyes and was assaulted with the bright light of morning, the detective averted his gaze to his body, frowning slightly as he saw the blanket. "John?" he murmured aloud, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Mmm. Good morning to you, too," Sherlock chuckled, a hand floating to his stomach as the baby moved. "Come along, then. Smells like John's been cooking."

Hoisting himself into a standing position, Sherlock quickly kneaded a few fingers into the base of back, wincing at the soreness there. "Your fault," he whispered, with a raised eyebrow down to his middle. Heaving a sigh, and pulling his robe snuggly around himself, the detective slowly made his way towards the kitchen, enjoying the delicious smells floating in from under the door.

"Mmm. Actually cooking something edible, are we?" he drawled, sliding open the door.

"Oh! Geez, Sherlock," John sighed, jumping slightly as he heard Sherlock's deep voice. "Do you think next time you could knock?" he accused, returning to the sizzling skillet.

"It's the kitchen."

"Well—yes, but… Oh, piss off."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed with a sly smile, pleased with himself. Crossing his fingers across his middle, the detective leaned back in a chair, quirking an eyebrow at John's frantic working. "What are you doing?"

"Being a good friend," the doctor scoffed distractedly, shooting his flat mate a quick glare.

"In what way?"

"I'm making you breakfast, you bloody git… And, in case you were wondering, a 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss, just so you know."

"I wasn't," Sherlock mumbled, picking up a newspaper lying on the table and absently skimming through the stories. "Oh that's a shame," he murmured with a click of tongue, nodding to a story.

"You're welcome," John muttered, quickly spooning some food onto a plate and dropping it (with a little more force than necessary) in front of Sherlock.

"Mmm. Thank you, John," the detective murmured, still engrossed in the article.

"You're wel… Wait, what?"

"Thank you," Sherlock reiterated, reaching forward and taking a piece of toast in his hand before returning to the story as he munched on the bread.

Smiling in a small, rather amazed way, John just gave a dazed nod of his head, unused to hearing a 'thank you' coming from Sherlock's mouth. Much less hearing a 'thank you' directed at him.

"Mmm," the detective merely hummed in reply, completely engrossed in the article he was reading.

 

 

**24 weeks**

"Bored… And my wrists hurts."

"Go do something."

"Like what?"

"Read—"

"Dull."

"Okay… You could write something—"

"Even more dull."

"You could—"

"I need a case! Or cigarettes… But I'm not allowed to have those anymore… Or my patches… Apparently," Sherlock drawled, shooting a hopeful glance towards John who, in turn raised a stern eyebrow. "Fine. And nothing on the website?"

"Nope. Nothing. No calls from Greg either."

"Greg?"

"Lestrade!" John cried in exasperation, tossing down the book he was reading.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock hummed. Chewing his lip with his teeth, the detective linked his fingers over the slight bump of his middle, and began to absentmindedly stroke his thumbs up and down the fabric of the shirt he was wearing. "My goodness, would you calm down?"

"But I'm not—"

"Not you, John. Little miss here. She seems to find it necessary to kick me and move around at every waking moment… It's most distracting. And I would greatly appreciate a moment of peace," he added loudly, scowling at his stomach.

"Ah, I see, I see… Well… On the topic of your… Ahem, 'condition'… If you're so bored, you could always update that sheet you're keeping," John suggested slyly, returning his gaze to his book, and ignoring the glare he knew he was now receiving from Sherlock. "Admit it. You secretly like it."

"Like what?" the detective muttered unhappily, hopping up from his position on the couch to grab his laptop, before shooting John one more icy glare.

"The movement. It. You enjoy all of it."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"Proof?"

"The spreadsheet you're currently updating?" John smirked, raising an eyebrow and chuckling aloud as his flat mate's fingers paused on the keys.

"Valid. Fine, fine… Yes, I am… Generally fond."

"Mmm-hmm. Come on, Sherlock. You're a little more than generally fond. Why are you so embarrassed about liking all of this? It's a baby—your baby, no less. It's perfectly natural to enjoy it."

"Well… I would 'enjoy it' more if I didn't feel the need to use the washroom every thirty minutes," Sherlock mumbled embarrassedly, quickly returning to the computer. "But other than that, I suppose you could say… Wait. What did you say?"

"When?"

"Just now. You said… My baby.."

"Well yes, of course," John said seriously, brows knitting together in confusion as he stared at Sherlock's frozen form.

"Why?"

Putting the book down and angling himself so as to better see his friend, John took a deep breath. "Because it—or she, as you prefer—is yours. I mean… She's a part of you. Growing inside of you. Alive because of you. Therefore, your baby. See?"

Sherlock, still frozen in his position on the couch, clearly seemed to be contemplating his friend's words. "So… You mean to say… She's… A part of me?" he asked quietly, gaze fixed on the ground.

"Well, yes of course she is," John murmured softly, watching with careful eyes, and hoping this conversation would not end up going where he thought it might.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, fingers curling against the curve of his middle as he thought. "My baby," he whispered, so quietly John almost didn't hear. "Yes, I… Suppose she isn't, isn't she? Hmm. Lovely."

"Yeah… It is," the doctor murmured, a small smile gracing his lips as he noticed the rather amazed looking of understanding that crossed Sherlock's sculpted features. "And you're quite amazing for doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Having 'her'."

"Ah. Well, I wouldn't quite go that far. She's quite more amazing than I am," Sherlock murmured with a fond gesture to his stomach. "I mean, she's the one doing all the growing and moving and… Being. Have you ever read anything on a developing baby in womb?" the detective questioned, suddenly very energetic.

Deciding to give his friend this little victory and moment of happiness, John allowed Sherlock to animatedly explain every detail of what was happening to the baby he was carrying and what had happened in the weeks past… And, though John had already learned every detail Sherlock was explaining, and more, he merely sat tight, nodding occasionally, and listened fondly to the detective's descriptive explanation all of the incredibly amazing things happening inside him.


	7. Fears and Reassurances

**25 weeks**

"Why do we need to go shopping?" Sherlock whined as he gracefully pulled on his long coat.

"Because, Sherlock. There's going to be a baby living her in a few weeks, and we are seriously under-prepared."

"… Fine," Sherlock huffed with an eye roll. Stuffing his slender fingers in his pockets, the detective turned and glided down the stairs, looking graceful and smooth as ever, John noted. It still never ceased to amaze him that Sherlock, though quite pregnant, could still manage to move so swiftly and with such grace.

Chuckling at the thought, the doctor buttoned up his coat and followed the detective down the stairs, pausing at the landing as he saw Sherlock, his back to him, gazing warily into the mirror at his left. John noticed that, from the back, Sherlock still looked completely normal; his thin waist still drew inwards with a gentle dip and then back out again as if like an hourglass. For a moment, it no longer looked as if anything was different with him… Let alone, that he had a twenty-five-week-old baby growing inside of him. "What are you thinking about?" John asked softly, clearly breaking his friend's train of thought as he opened the front door.

"Thirteen," Sherlock murmured as they slid into the cab John had called.

"Uhh, okay… What's that got to do with anything?"

"The number of fetal movement in the past hour."

"… I still don't understand."

"Oh of course you don't; you always require an explanation for everything." Heaving a sigh and then groaning slightly at the effort, Sherlock shifted, having to make accommodations for his middle, and then settled back into his seat, lacing a few fingers over the top of his hidden bump, which was quickly becoming a new favorite pose. "Babies at twenty-five weeks usually exhibit twenty to thirty fetal movements per hour. I, however, have only experienced thirteen. Wait…" The detective held a finger up to silence the remark he knew was poised on John's tongue.

"Moving now?" the doctor asked, despite his friend's slender finger.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, a small smile quirking over his lips as he gazed fondly at his stomach.

"Ah, I see," John sighed, finally understanding. "You're worried because it's—"

"She."

"It… Has not been moving the expected twenty to thirty times an hour."

"Precisely. About time you got something right," Sherlock muttered under his breath, though the smile still on his lips seemed to soften the insult.

"Yeah, right, thanks. Anyway, what's the problem?"

Sherlock fixed John with a looked that quite clearly said: _Really? I knew you were an idiot, but really?_ "She's not been moving the normal documented amount, John."

"So?"

"So? So maybe something's wrong with her… We should go get an ultrasound. Hmm… Yes. Good, let's go. Driver, could you instead—"

"Ah, ah! No," John cried, wrapping a hand around the detective's arm and tugging him back.

"Well why ever not?"

"Because we are on our way to the store to go shopping for baby things; we don't have time to make a stop right now, because if we do, I can guarantee you the shopping will never get done. We can do an ultrasound later, okay? Yes?"

Pouting slightly, Sherlock leaned back into the seat, wincing slightly at the soreness in his lower back. Chewing his lip with his teeth, the detective leaned forward and kneaded a few fingers into his back.

"Sore?" John asked.

"Mmm. Indeed."

"Sorry."

Upon hearing John's words, Sherlock's fingers stilled and he turned to look at the doctor, brows knitted together. "Why?" he asked, genuinely curious. "It's not your fault."

"Well of course not, but I can still feel sorry, can't I?"

"Well… I—I suppose, but… Why?" Sherlock asked, face fixed in an expression of true curiosity and mild wonder.

"Because you're my friend," John stated simply, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "And I know how hard all of this," he made a vague gesture towards Sherlock's stomach, "has been for you. And I understand all of the changes you've had to undergo. You've made a lot of sacrifices for this baby, and quite frankly, I think you're doing wonderfully with the whole thing, so I guess I just feel sorry for you sometimes when, you know, things like this happen," John practically gasped, the words tumbling off his tongue without a second thought. "That's uh—ahem—that's all, I huh… Yeah," the doctor mumbled, now quite embarrassed.

Averting his gaze, John scooted to the far side of the cab and stared out the window. When, after several minutes of silence, there came not even a whisper from Sherlock, the doctor dared a hesitant glance towards his flat mate and nearly froze, himself. The detective's face was set in a soft expression, with a tender smile on his lips, those piercing blue-grey-green eyes merely gazing at the doctor.

"What?" John asked worriedly.

"That was very kind of you to say," Sherlock replied with a genuine touch of thankfulness lacing his rumbling voice. "It's nice to… Feel as if I'm not alone in all of this. It can be quite… Quite daunting at times," the detective murmured, though he was worrying his lip in a way that John knew meant he was thinking aloud.

"What can be?"

"Oh, you know… The whole idea of it, I suppose. Another human life, which is entirely mine to take care of and protect, even now," he whispered, punctuating it with an incredibly tender pat to his stomach. "It's just rather terrifying sometimes to think she's completely dependent on me…" Sherlock was too caught up with his musing to notice that John was grinning warmly at him. With a sharp intake of breath, the detective blinked a few times before giving a firm nod of his head. "Anyway! Yes, thank you. Where are we going?"

"The store?"

"Oh, yes! Right. Baby stuff… Why?"

"Bloody hell!"

 

 

By the time they finally arrived at the shops, John was just about ready to pull his hair out and Sherlock still was not understanding the point of going shopping for baby items.

Pulling his coat firmly around him, Sherlock slid out of the cab and hurried after John, who had already marched up to the doors.

"Ready?" the doctor sighed as Sherlock reached him.

"I suppose so, but I still don't—"

"Ah!" John cried, holding a finger up. "Not. A. Word." Shaking his head, the doctor pushed open the door, not bothering to hold it open for his following flat mate. "Okay. Let's start with the bigger items first, hmm?" he asked, grabbing a cart.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed with an eye roll. Scowling to himself, the detective begrudgingly grabbed a cart of his own and started to wheel it out after John. "My thoughts exactly," he murmured in affection at a series of kicks he received to his middle. "Well, at least you're moving around now. Just tired, hmm?" A smile. "Or perhaps you're just lazy. Like me."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Coming?"

"Oh. Yes."

 

 

An hour and twenty-one minutes later, Sherlock and John had finally decided on a cot, pram (though Sherlock insisted it would never be used), several different brands of bottles (because Sherlock needed to test which were actually reliable), an absolutely ridiculous amount of baby formula (for similar reasons to the bottles) and a blanket lined with tags the detective had vehemently insisted on buying for some unknown reason to John.

Now, the two flat mates were standing in the baby clothes section, with Sherlock gazing distastefully at the wide array of fabric. "These are simply appalling," he muttered, snatching a pink onesie that read, "Mommy's Little Monkey," and holding it away with two fingers, as if worried he might catch some sort if disease from the fabric.

"They're baby clothes, Sherlock; they're supposed to be cute," John chuckled, thumbing through a rack of gender-neutral onesies.

"Well, they are anything but. Do explain to me why babies cannot just wear regular, normal, 'un-cute' clothes. I mean it's not as if the babies, themselves are going to know the difference."

"Like this?" John asked, holding up a completely plain, yellow onesie.

"Mmm, closer. But no yellow."

"What? Why not?"

"Because yellow is a positively appalling color, one of which no child of mine will ever be seen in."

"Well, okay, then. What color do you suggest?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, drumming a few fingers against the cart handle. "... Black," he stated firmly with a content nod of his head. "I wear black almost every day, it matches everything, and is technically a combination of every known color. Therefore: black is colorful. Yes, very good then. Black."

"No!" John cried suddenly, throwing his arms in the air and startling Sherlock in the process. "The baby is not going to wear black!"

"Well—"

"Or brown. Or grey. We're getting yellow."

Scowling, Sherlock quickly ran a few fingers through his perfectly-groomed raven curls. "Purple," he compromised eventually with a raise brow, grabbing a few dark purple baby grows and tossing them in the cart. "Good?" he asked dryly, brow still raised.

"Better," John chuckled, not so much because the situation was humorous, but because he felt he may cry out if he didn't. "What about blue?"

"But it's a girl," Sherlock stated, now thumbing through the selection of clothes, himself.

"You don't know that," the doctor countered, plucking a few dark blue onesies and throwing them to the pile.

"Hmm. I don't like the blue," Sherlock hummed, though his back was to the cart and he hadn't turned around.

"How could you—"

"It's boring... And meant for a male child. Get some pink."

"You're serious?"

Hands stilling their frantic movements, Sherlock turned to fix John with one of his usual looks. Would I have said it if I wasn't?

"Okay, okay, fine. I just... Didn't think you'd actually put up an offer or suggestion."

"I suggested black."

"Doesn't count."

"By your parameters, it does," Sherlock smirked, returning to the rack and plucking out a few garments before draping them over his forearm to hold one in his hand and inspect it.

Feeling the frustration quickly drain from his veins, John's expression softened as he watched Sherlock carefully examine the fabric of one of the outfits, running it through his capable fingers. And it occurred to the doctor that, by carefully and vigorously inspecting the fabric, Sherlock's was showing he cared, in his own unusual Sherlock Holmes way. And John knew that although the detective pretended to be indifferent, Sherlock was secretly excited about the whole endeavor. John could see it in the feather-light touches to his stomach, meant to be just a twitch of the fingers, and the tender glances to his concealed middle, as if to check the baby was still there and safe.

Smiling at the memory and deciding to leave his friend to his thoughts and observations, John silently returned to sifting through the baby clothes and pulled out a few pink baby grows, not noticing the fond quirk of his flat mate's lips when he did so.

John and Sherlock were standing in the check-out line, both carts full, with the doctor unloading each and every one of the items onto the conveyor belt while Sherlock scrolled through his mobile.

"You could help a bit, you know," John groaned as he struggled with the large box containing the cot.

"Well, of course I could. I'm just choosing not to."

"And why the bloody hell not?"

"Busy and pregnant, remember?"

A groan. "Fine."

"Oh, finally!" came the triumphant cry of Sherlock.

"What?" John spat, not bothering to turn around as he started on the many, many cans and bottles and jars of formula.

"Lestrade. New case. Meet me at the flat." And then he was gone, coat billowing behind him as he escaped out the doors.

"Bloody git."

 

 

By the time John returned to the flat, several bags slung over his arms as he attempted to push the large box containing the cot up the stairs, he was more than royally frustrated.

"Phone, John," Sherlock murmured from where he was laying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin.

"What?"

"My mobile, John. I've been asking you to pass it to me."

"Ah, right. So sorry that I was busy buying and carrying all the crap for your baby, might I remind you," the doctor hissed irritably, making sure to shove the box across the floor with extra vigor, just for good measure.

Eyes blinking open with a start, Sherlock craned his neck to frown at his flat mate, though the doctor was already storming back down the stairs. Heaving a dramatic sigh, the detective rolled himself over and slid off the couch with a groan. "Ah!" he gasped in excitement as he felt another series of strong, yet reassuring kicks to his middle. "Good! You're still moving," the detective chuckled fondly, smiling down at the protrusion of his clothed belly. "I was getting worried earlier, " he added with a feather-light touch to his stomach. "Must have just been sleeping again, hmm? Probably John's fault for waking you up, you know, with all the noise he was making... What was he..." Eyeing the box that had jolted him—and his child, apparently—from their thoughts, Sherlock left the couch and sauntered over to the cot. "Hmm..." he hummed, raising an eyebrow at the box.

 

 

Muttering to himself as returned with a second and then a third load of shopping bags and boxes, John finally heaved a sigh of relief as he finished. Wading through the many, many bags of shopping, the doctor plopped down in his chair, heaving a sigh as he settled into the cushions. "Thank you, by the way," he spat, not even bothering to open his eyes as he spoke towards the couch. "Your help was most appreciated. Why is it that I'm always the one who does all the… Sherlock. Sherlock?" Realizing that no smart-arse retort, or even sound had come, John opened his eyes and glanced towards the couch, frowning when he realized the detective was no longer laying there.

Heaving a sigh, the doctor pushed himself out of the chair and made his way through the kitchen and to his flat mate's room, smirking when he saw the door was closed. Without bothering to give some sort of verbal warning, John silently pushed open the door just enough so that he could peer in. And he couldn't help the grin that spread over his lips as he caught sight of what was happening.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the door, with pieces of the cot scattered all around him and a set of instructions clutched tightly in one hand and a piece of the crib in the other. About half of the cot was completed, but Sherlock now seemed to be confused as to where he was supposed to go.

Desperately trying to stifle the few giggles he felt quickly approaching, John pulled out his mobile and was just about to take as many pictures as he could.

"Put it away, John," came Sherlock's deep, and quite clearly flustered voice.

"How the bloody hell do you always—"

"Doesn't matter. Come help me."

Slightly flabbergasted that the detective was actually asking him for help, John sort of stumbled into the room, nodding his head a few times. "Uh, sure. What, uhh… What?"

"Help, John. I need your help putting this bloody thing together. This instructions are entirely less than helpful; they make no sense."

"Well… Ah. That's because you need to turn it," John laughed, taking the paper from Sherlock's fingers and turning it.

"Oh. Well, then… Ahem, thank you."

"Uh-huh," John smirked, plopping down next to the detective and clicking several pieces into place.

 

 

Five minutes later, Sherlock decided that if John was willing to help, the doctor could finish the cot by himself, and though it went mostly unnoticed by his flat mate, carefully slipped out of the room to focus on the case Lestrade had handed him.

Twenty minutes later, the detective returned to find the cot was almost completely finished.

"See? Wasn't that hard!" John gasped triumphantly as he clicked the last piece into place.

"Very good job, John," Sherlock praised mockingly, giving his flat mate a quick pat on the shoulder.

"Yeah, I know, that was… Oh." An eye roll. "You bloody git. You got me to put this whole thing together for you."

"Yes, I did. And it looks lovely, thank you. Now, if you could just move it over there."

With a frustrated sigh, John shoved himself into a standing position and glared at his flat mate.

"Pregnant," Sherlock jeered with a raised eyebrow before nodding to the completed cot. "Go on, then. It would be a shame if, because I exerted the energy and muscle to move the cot, there was some sort of complication later on, wouldn't it?"

Biting back the string of profanities he was ready to spew, John merely set his jaw and moved over to the cot, picking it up, and then turned back to his flat mate, waiting expectantly.

"Other side of the bed, please," Sherlock told him with a pleased smirk. "Yes, just there. Thank you, then. Oh! Finally, there's been an update! John, go get your coat, we're going to The Yard."

Mumbling to himself, and not bothering to grace Sherlock with even a glare, John merely marched out of the room, shutting the door a little too forcefully behind him, though the action only made the detective chuckle to himself.

Quickly finding his coat, Sherlock hurried over to the other side of the bed, where the cot now sat, and pulled it on. He was just about to head back out of the room when the sight of the cot in his room, prompted him to pause. Suddenly feeling a paternal flutter course through his veins, Sherlock leaned over the crib, and glanced into it, smiling at the thought that in just a few weeks, a baby—his baby—would be sleeping inside. "Almost there, hmm?" he whispered, glancing now towards his abdomen. "Soon… Soon."

Having one last thought, Sherlock quickly found one of the bags he'd brought into his room and pulled out the tag blanket he'd bought. Smiling once again, the detective pressed his nose into the soft fabric, running one of the tags lining the edges through his thumb and forefinger. "Mmm," he sighed, as memories of his own childhood came flooding back.

Memorizing the smell and feel of the fabric, Sherlock leaned down and carefully placed the blanket on the bottom of the cot. "There we go…"

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh. Coming!" With one last look towards the completed cot and the blanket, Sherlock quickly glided out of his room.

 

 

"Good, then. Call me as soon as there is another one. But make sure every detail is exactly the same. If anything is different, even the most minuscule detail, it's not our man, understood?"

"Oh, uh… Yeah, yeah," Lestrade muttered, sounding incredibly confused. "Good, then I'll just—"

"Well... If it isn't the Scotland Yard Freak. How ya' doing?" came the sneering voice of Sally Donovan. Lestrade had tried his best to keep her away from Sherlock for the duration of his pregnancy, but unfortunately, he could only come up with so many excuses before the Sergeant began to become suspicious.

With an eye roll, Sherlock turned so he was facing the Sergeant. "Ah, Sally. How wonderful to see you," he drawled cooly, draping his coat over his lean shoulders in the hope that it would conceal his bump.

"Oh, please. Don't act as if nothing's wrong," Donovan continued, taking a predator-like step into Lestrade's office. "I know all about your little experiment," she spat, as if the words tasted bad on her tongue. "Though, I must admit, Lestrade did an excellent job of keeping the secret."

"Shit," John breathed softly as he came to the realization that Sally knew about the pregnancy. "Sherlock," he added in a whisper so quite, he doubted even the detective heard. Biting his bottom lip, the doctor dared a quick glance to his friend and felt his heart twinge painfully in his chest.

Sherlock's face, though already pale, was now void of any and all color, and had taken on a translucent appearance. His jaw was set in withheld anger, causing a sharp line to slope down the length of his neck. John could see how desperately Sherlock was trying to restrain himself from touching his stomach, and the need to protect, to shield, his unborn child. The betrayal, however, was the detective's eyes. Their ever-changing shades were bright with a mixture of hatred, fear, and most notably: shame... An emotion John didn't even think existed in his flat mate's small repertoire of emotions. And, the doctor quickly noticed, tears were beginning to brim in Sherlock's eyes.

"Shut up, Sally," he snapped suddenly, cutting her off mid-insult. "Just... Shut up."

Tears still threatening to spill over, Sherlock turned, mouth hanging open slightly, watery eyes wide with mild shock and utter gratefulness as he watched John take a step in front of him towards Donovan.

"Why are you so cruel? You're just cruel. This man has been, and is going through more than you have and ever would be, lucky enough to experience. Sure, Sally, he's a little different. But his is creating something beautiful inside of him, and that's more than you can say for yourself, Sally. So you just leave him alone."

Quite clearly flabergasted into silence, Donovan merely stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at John, desperately attempting to find some sort of clever retort.

"Well," she finally managed. "Let's just hope the poor child looks like its other father."

"Get out!" Lestrade hollered, attempting to cover Sally's comment with his voice, but it was too late.

"Sherlock," John tried carefully, taking a hesitant step towards his friend's now-stricken form. "Sherlock, are you—" he started, placing a few fingers to the detective's arm.

"No." With a small shudder, Sherlock shrugged away from his friend's touch and, before anyone could even register it, had ghosted out of the room…

"Sherlock," John sighed sadly, sending Lestrade an apologetic smile before hurrying after the detective, deciding not to tell Greg of the unmistakeable intake of breath he'd heard from Sherlock, which he knew all too well as the beginnings of a sob.

Knowing that Sherlock would head to the only place he would feel safe, and hoping he would be able to reach 221B just as his flat mate did, John had quickly called a cab and managed to make it to the flat in record time.

"Thanks, mate," he said hurriedly, throwing a series of bills at the cabbie before making a dash for the door and hurrying up the stairs into 221B. "Sherlock?" he called quietly and gently as he stepped into the sitting room. Frowning slightly when the detective was nowhere to be found, the doctor suddenly gave a small sigh of understanding. With a deep breath, John walked to Sherlock's room, feeling his suspicions were only confirmed when he found the detective's door to be closed. "Sherlock? Sherlock, it's John," he called, injecting as much gentleness in the tones of his voice as he could. When no answer came, the doctor carefully pushed open the door, and paused in the doorway when he saw the detective, standing with his back to him, at the foot of the bed, quite obviously stricken. "Sherlock…" A hesitant step closer. "Hey, look at me." Another. "Sherlock, you can't listen to anything she says and put any stock in it." Two more. "Sherlock?" he asked again, voice not even a whisper. Final step. "Sherlock, look at me," he urged with a light touch to the detective's arm.

Gasping slightly at the sensation of touch, Sherlock jumped away from his friend's touch, eyes wide and tear-filled. "John," he breathed, chest suddenly heaving with painful breaths as his eyes darted frantically about the room. "No, she—John, she…" Releasing a sob that had been building and constricting in his chest, the detective's hands started to quickly clench and then unclench at his sides.

Knowing the signs all too well, John quickly rushed forward and seized Sherlock's shaking form on either side of his arms. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he chanted in soothing tones, guiding the panicking detective to the bed and setting him down. "Sherlock, look at me. Sherlock, you're having a panic attack. You need to calm down," he murmured calmly, rubbing a hand up and down his friend's shuddering back. "Come on, Sherlock, you can do it."

A few tears spilling free, and with his breaths traveling in and out in painful gasps, Sherlock buried his face in his hands, not even noticing as he leaned into John's reassuring touch. "Bath… Bathroom," he finally managed between shudders.

"Right, then. Come along." But the detective had already escaped from his hold and was hurrying into the bathroom. "Oh, Sherlock," John sighed sadly as saw Sherlock curl himself around the toilet and promptly retch into it.

Ever the doctor, John quickly hurried over and managed to pull of Sherlock's coat. "Just calm down… You'll be all right," he murmured, squatting down and then stroking a hand up and down his friend's back as he convulsed again. "You'll be all right…"

Exhaling sharply, Sherlock—rather violently—shoved himself away from the toilet, gasping for breath, and still shuddering. A tear falling free and traveling down the dips and planes of his cheek, the detective gently pulled away from John's touch, and turned, staring frozen at the wall.

Realizing that Sherlock was wanting to do this on his own, John slowly backed away and crouched in the doorway, watching with careful eyes, in case he should need to do anything quickly.

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to rid his mind of Sally's voice, bouncing around and echoing. Other father… Other father… Other father… "No," he breathed aloud, turning away in embarrassment from his friend's sad gaze. "Not… Not…"

Suddenly, however, there came a movement from inside of him. An incredibly tiny, almost barely noticeable flutter of pops and kicks from his middle.

Gasping at the sensation, Sherlock's silvery eyes quickly flew open, and with them, flew away the sneering voice of Sally, as well as her words. Almost immediately, the pounding in his head dissipated; the sick feeling that had been churning in his stomach was no longer there; the shaking and shuddering of his limbs and body was no longer happening. "Oh," he breathed, quickly sliding both of his hands under his clothing, pressing them to the slight protrusion of his middle and flattening his palms against the skin. Almost immediately, there came several more movements from his baby, kicking him on the inside and outside, as if to reassure him that everything was all right.

"Oh, I know… I know," Sherlock whispered, finding the sensation incredibly grounding and reassuring. "I'm here… Sorry, love… I'm sorry. Oh…" Closing his eyes one last time, the detective allowed himself a few moments just to revel in the incredible feeling of his baby—his baby girl—communicating with him, sending him signs of reassurance and safety. "Thank you, love," he mouthed, running both of his thumbs up and down over the tight skin of stomach. "Oh, thank you…" Not bothering to worry that John was watching him, Sherlock leaned his head back against the tub, and closed his eyes, focusing on getting his breathing and body returning to normal. "I'm here," he whispered over and over again as he received a series of rather distressed kicks to his abdomen, as he knew that a baby in the womb could feel and sense their mother's emotions and worries and fears. "I'm so sorry… I'm here… We're both all right now. So sorry..."

John merely sat silently, not daring to move or breath or make a sound. He waited patiently, somehow feeling as if he was invading on an incredible intimate moment between Sherlock and his baby. But still, the doctor just sat, watching as his flat mate's chest stopped its heaving, and his fingers loosened so they were no longer grasping at his middle, but were rather just curled protectively around the showing skin.

Gathering himself and collecting and sorting through his jumbled thoughts, Sherlock cleared his throat, and, refusing to release the protective hold he had on his stomach, managed to get himself into a standing position. John quickly followed suit, though stayed where he was in the doorway. "Better?"

"Mmm… Quite," Sherlock murmured, eyes downcast in embarrassment. "Apologies for that, I uh… Don't know what… Happened."

"Sherlock, you don't need to apologize for anything. I've had quite a few panic attacks of my own, so I understand how scary and gripping they can be… And how unexpected, as well… Don't apologize…"

Finally meeting his friend's gaze, Sherlock merely stared down into his flat mate's colorful eyes, feeling tears of gratefulness and understanding quickly fill his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, with a nod of his head. "I just… What she said…"

"No, no, no, Sally was completely out of place. She had no right to say the things she did, and don't you dare listen to her for a second!" John spat, taking Sherlock back with the pure anger and hatred radiating from his person. "You have done so much, and done it all so well. And I just… I can't believe she had the _nerve_ to say something so horrible."

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered once again, not even attempting to conceal the raw emotion from leaking into his voice. "Thank you, John… But… But, John what if Donovan's right? What if she," a nod to his middle, "looks just like him, and—and what if I can't bear to love her because of it?" Sherlock said hurriedly. And now that he'd started, the detective was worried that he might not be able to stop the tumble of thoughts and fears transferring themselves to words in his mouth. "What if she's born, and she has his hair, or mouth, or face, or eyes, and I can't bear to look at her? John, what if I don't love her because of it! How could she… John, what if I can't bear it, or—or—what will happen if every time I look at her I see _him_ , staring back at me with those eyes?"

Suddenly realizing where Sherlock's panic had stemmed from, John surged forward and guided his friend's tense form from the bathroom. "Can I tell you something?" he asked, gazing up at his flat mate's taller form.

Stopping his ramblings, Sherlock pressed his lips together and gave a nod of his head. "Go on."

"Even if she does look like him, I can promise you… You will love her with all your heart. Because, even if she has his eyes, or face, or hair, or mouth, she will always have a part of you inside of her, right? Moran is not here," John said, feeling a twinge in his chest as he saw Sherlock flinch at the name, but continued on. "He is not, has not been, and will not be this baby's father. _Ever._ You are. You're the one carrying it, the one protecting it, and caring for it—"

"Her."

"Exactly. For her… That's all you. Not him. Yes? Would you agree?" A feeble nod. "Exactly. So, whether she looks like him, or looks like you, I can promise you… You will love her."

"How do you know, though?" Sherlock asked, sounding utterly broken. "Where's the data, the facts, the information?"

Chuckling silently, John's gaze fell to the detective's middle. "Right there," he stated with a raised eyebrow, pointing to Sherlock's hands, clutching desperately to the skin of his bared abdomen.

Not even realizing he was still doing it, the detective's gaze fell to his middle, and, as he saw his hands cradling the home of his child, Sherlock felt an unmistakeable calm wash over him, shooing away all of the fears and insecurities clouding his mind. "Oh," he sighed, as he felt the weight suddenly release itself from his shoulders. "Thank you, John. Thank you."

In response, the doctor merely smiled and gave his friend's knee a light pat. "There we are. All right now?"

"Mmm. I'm getting there."

"Good…" John thought for a moment, glancing briefly at his friend's recovering form. "Come on," he whispered, standing up and giving his flat mate a warm smile. "We have an ultrasound to go to, don't we?"

Still holding his stomach, Sherlock turned his gaze up to John and suddenly uttered something between a chuckle and a sob. "Yes… Yes, we do."


	8. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to say, I wrote this all in one sitting, and wanted to get it up as soon as possible, so there are probably going to be several mistakes. Please excuse, I will fix as soon as possible! Thank you! =) For some reason, this website's document manager comes up with really weird suggestions for simple words. But that's okay! =P Thank you to all who have been reading, I truly appreciate it! Have a great rest of your week, guys!

**28 weeks**

Sherlock awoke with a soft sigh. Quickly coming to and realizing he was on his bed, the detective rolled onto his other side and unknowingly draped an arm lazily around his protruding belly. "Mmm. Good morning," he hummed with a gentle pat to the tight, unusually pale skin. "Finally decided to take a rest, then, did we? Don't suppose you could have paused your frantic moving to allow me to get just a few hours of decent sleep, hmm?" In response, Sherlock could feel the baby shifting ever so slightly in his abdomen. "Mmm. Me as well, love," he murmured affectionally, kneading the tips of his fingers into his temple as he, as well stretched about, spreading his long limps over the bed. "Me as well."

Taking a moment, the detective allowed himself to sink into the comfortable cushions of the bed, enjoying the relief it gave his sore back. "My Lord, you are a ton of work," he grumbled, though he was tenderly cradling his stomach. "I just hope you know that… Agh, all right, all right. Point made." Frowning as he felt his stomach rumble, followed quickly by a swift kick under his ribs, which briefly stole the breath from his lugs, Sherlock rolled himself out of bed, not enjoying how difficult and uncomfortable moving was becoming.

Talking to his middle—which had become quite commonplace now—and running a few fingers over the bare skin of his bump, Sherlock slowly sauntered into the loo and turned on the shower, quite enjoying the soothing sound of the water constantly hitting and bouncing off the tile. Quickly shedding his clothes, the detective slipped into the shower and allowed the warm water to flush his alabaster skin a light pink, finding the warmer the water, the more relief he found for the aches that were now burning through his body on a daily basis.

Once he felt thoroughly clean and washed, Sherlock carefully stepped out of the shower, using the wall to support himself as he regained his balance, and began to grumble about the shift in his centre of gravity, now he had the extra weight of a baby. "Your fault," he muttered fondly, quickly finding a towel and wrapping it around his hips as he gazed down at his bare stomach, having a sudden yearning to see and touch and hold the little life he could feel tumbling around inside of him. "Almost there," he murmured, quickly pulling on a pair of trousers and running a towel over his dripping curls. "Just calm down; I'm here," the detective chuckled with a loving quirk of his lips as his baby, of whom he knew he would be feeling for the rest of the day, started to shift and stretch about inside of him. "Always am. Hmm…"

Drowning in his thoughts and ponderings, Sherlock somehow managed to find a shirt and pull it on, and eventually found he had wandered out of his room and into the kitchen. "Oh." Shaking clear his mind, the detective begrudgingly threw together a sandwich, still not used to the idea of eating so frequently, and not enjoying the necessity for it.

"Ah. See you finally decide to get out of bed, hmm?" came John's clearly amused voice.

"Hmm? Oh. What time is it?" Sherlock mumbled, taking a bite of his sandwich as he turned to face his smirking flat mate.

"About half past ten," the doctor chuckled, leaving his position against the doorframe as the smirk slowly slipped from his lips. "Are you all right?" he asked honestly.

"What? Oh. Yes, of course." With a submissive wave of his hand, and still munching on his sandwich, Sherlock brushed passed John and padded into the sitting room. "Thank you," he added softly, and rather guiltily, as he stretched out over the couch.

"Sure. Just… Checking. Oh, by the way, Lestrade dropped by a ridiculous amount of—" John paused, and nearly jumped, at the sound of a sharp intake of breath from his flat mate. "What? What is it?"

"I—I don't know," Sherlock breathed, though now he was in an upright position on the couch. "There was… A pain… Here." Frowning, and looking quite panicked, the detective turned ever so slightly and spread his long fingers over his lower waist. "It was like a quick burst of burning pain. Is that—John what if—"

"Sherlock, relax," John chuckled, taking a seat in his chair. "It's called Braxton Hicks. They're sort of like fake contractions. Nothing to worry about, and completely normal," he reassured with a laugh.

"Oh… Well… Right, then." Clearly unconvinced, Sherlock decided to stay sitting upright, much to the amusement of his flat mate. "What?" he accused upon seeing the doctor's look. "Just... Erring on the side of caution."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, piss off."

 

 

**30 weeks**

"Going out for a bit," John called into the sitting room, where Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and his robe.

"Getting what?" the detective's rumbling voice floated in from where he was seated.

"I didn't say I was… Nevermind. I'm getting milk. We're out. Any requests?"

Keeping his fingertips pressed firmly against his lips and not bothering to turn around, Sherlock thought for a moment. "Do we still have peanut butter?"

"Yes."

More thinking with closed eyes and steepled fingers. "What about fruit? What fruit do we have?"

"Fruit?"

"Dear Lord, John. Yes. Fruit. I assume you have heard of such a thing…" A sigh. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Not you, John. Her," Sherlock murmured with a fond quirk of his lips and a nod to his belly. "Whenever I get frustrated, upset, or emotionally unsound—rare as that is, if not impossible—the result is usually a series of rather uncomfortably-placed kicks. I have not yet determined if there is any proof of a correlation, but the experiment is currently underway… Either way, I was becoming frustrated with you, and your incompetence to understand a simple request, and as a result, I was rather rudely, I should have you know," the detective enunciated, though it was to his middle, not his flat mate, "kicked in the bladder. So I apologized for causing her discomfort—because of course fetuses in the womb can feel and sense their carrier's emotions—which in the end resulted in my own discomfort. Simple, John. Think. Now. Fruit?"

Both shocked and confused into silence, John merely stared at his friend's robe-covered back, brows drawn together. "What?"

"Oh, Dear Lord! Nevermind," Sherlock sighed in exasperation, running both of his hands through his raven curls before taking a deep breath and returning them to his lips.

"Ach, all right, all right, sorry… No, we don't have any fruit."

"I assumed. Get some."

"Well… What kind do you want?"

"Doesn't matter so long as its fruit and is edible."

"Right. Fruit. Anything else?"

"No. Thank you."

"Right. Got it."

"Oh. Have you now?"

Witholding an eye roll, and rather rude remark, as he knew Sherlock was gradually becoming incredibly uncomfortable with the pregnancy, John merely gave a nod of his head, grabbed his coat, and was off. In a way, he did feel quite sorry for his flat mate; the detective was unused to all of the added weight, and as such was experiencing more aches and pains that one with a normal pregnancy would. He also knew that Sherlock, being a man who craved and needed control over his body—most especially his mind—was having a lot of difficulty coping with the fact that his body was undergoing changes he not only didn't understand, but could do nothing to stop or alter. "Keep going, mate," the doctor murmured to himself as he pushed open the door and quickly fled down the steps.

"Finally!" Sighing in relief at the silence that quickly filled the flat, now it was just him occupying it, Sherlock allowed his fingers to slide from their steepled position, until they were buried in his raven curls. "Oh, do please stop this insufferable aching," he muttered to no one in particular, opening his eyes to scowl at the ground. "Not that I blame you of course," he added quickly, daring a quick glance to the protrusion of his middle. "Well… Not entirely... Though it is, I suppose, technically your fault, seeing as you're the one who is growing inside of me, and as such have added the weight, which has therefore contributed to the pain I am currently experiencing, seeing as my rather slight form is unused to carrying so much extra—b-but not that I'm blaming you of course, just simply… Examining… Sorry… I must sound incredibly rude. I do still love you though, there should be no worries about such a thing," Sherlock reassured quietly, somehow finding that his hands had made their way down the cradle the gentle curve of his abdomen. "And, I would never wish that you would stop growing."

Smiling to himself and gazing lovingly at the bare skin of his middle as he was met with a flurry of highly-noitceable movement, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself a few moments just to revel in the feel of it. "Mmm," he hummed, feeling a flutter of warmth blossom and spread through his chest and down to his stomach. "Never cease to amaze me, love," the detective whispered. "You've already started and we haven't even been properly introduced. What on earth is it going to be like when we actually meet?"

Sherlock froze as he heard a series of low, deliberate footsteps making their way up the stairs. Knowing instantly to whom those slow footsteps belonged, the detective clambered up from his cross-legged position on the floor and stood to his full height, not only to make himself taller, but to make his now-noticible bump appears mallet. As the visitor came into view, Sherlock set his jaw and fixed Mycroft with a hesitant gaze, fighting the itching urge to touch and hold the addicting curve of his belly, the proof of his growing baby… Who, he just realized, he loved far more than he could have ever imagined.

Shaking the thought away, Sherlock pulled his robe around him as he saw his brother set eyes on him for the first time. He hated how incredibly self-conscious he felt under the scrutinizing gaze of his elder brother; he should be proud of his baby… Not embarrassed by her.

In response to the shame creeping through his veins, Sherlock could feel a flurry of frantic movement beneath his skin. A sensation which he had become quite addicted to, and couldn't imagine going a day without. The feeling of his baby reminding him of its presence allowed a ghost of a smile to quirk over the detective's defined lips.

"Well, brother dear… I finally get to see you in your condition," Mycroft drawled as he took a step into the flat, quite clearly examining his younger brother for any and every betraying detail.

Sherlock merely pressed his lips into a tight line, knowing Mycroft would continue whether he spoke or not, and wrapped the robe further around his bare top, crossing his arms over the curve of his bump, as if to give his baby a protective shield from the words he knew his brother might possibly utter. "And?"

"And?"

"Go on, then. Get it out of your system. Tell me how disgusting, and repulsing, and unnatural I am," Sherlock muttered, sounding incredibly calm.

"Why would I say a thing like that?" Mycroft asked, genuinely confused.

"It's what you're thinking. And the sooner you say it, the sooner you can leave and I can get on with my day."

Mycroft appeared truly offended. "Is that what you think I think of you?" he murmured, fingers twitching over the handle of his umbrella in worry. The government official rolled his eyes when he saw Sherlock's silvery eyes immediately travel to his hand, knowing that his younger brother had seen and recognized the uncomfortable movement.

"Naturally," Sherlock murmured, still keeping a firm hold of his middle.

"Well… That is most unfortunate. The truth, actually is quite the opposite. I paid you a visit today because I've noticed you haven't been leaving the flat as often, and wanted to make sure all was well with you… Both of you."

"You've been spying on me?" Sherlock asked, rather incredulously, as he was not used to seeing his elder brother exhibit so much care for something—much less himself and his baby.

"No, no, no not at all," Mycroft said hurriedly, abandoning his umbrella and taking another step towards his brother's tall from. "I've merely set up a surveillance system in front of the flat."

"Why?"

"Well, needless to say, I never imagined I'd have a niece or nephew, much less a niece or nephew with Holmes blood. Such a thing must be protected," Mycroft explained with a raised brow, though Sherlock could see through his attempted explanation. A small smile ghosted over his lips as he realized the small truth in his brother's statement. Such a thing must be protected.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, allowing his arms to loosen ever so slightly.

"For what?" Mycroft inquired, feigning confusion.

"You know what. Protection. For us." Sherlock nodded to his hidden belly. "Thank you…"

"Mmm," the government official merely hummed in reply, having never been sufficient at expressing his feelings. "You're very… Welcome… So, in reference to my previous inquiry, has everything been well? With… That?" Mycroft nodded to his brother's arms, draped loosely over his less-hidden middle.

"Her."

"Her?"

"Yes. Her."

"Ah. So you discovered the sex."

"No."

"… I don't understand."

Sherlock chuckled aloud, giving himself the satisfaction of allowing his fingers to curl with the shape of his protruding stomach as he was met with several less-frantic, more lazy kicks. "John is the only one who knows the true sex. Well, and anyone he's told. I just have a feeling. A sense, if you will. I can feel that she's a girl."

"Ah. I see… Still not quite sure I understand, but… Oh, well. I assumed the child is well?"

"According to John, yes. She's a little smaller than we'd like her to be, but what she lacks in size she makes up for in movement and kicks, I can assure you. It's quite interesting, really. I've actually started a study in which I—" Sherlock stopped abruptly, blushing, when he realized Mycroft was smirking at him.

"It moves?" the government official asked, chuckling slightly. The smirk quickly slid from his lips, however, when he was met with a positively confidence-shattering look from his brother. A look which clearly said: How daft, unknowledgeable, and all around stupid could you possibly be?

"Of course she moves. She is alive, Mycroft. Here. Give me your hand." Daring to release his hold on his middle, Sherlock offered a hand. Mycroft merely stared at his brother's ivory skin, as if afraid the hand would crawl off and attack him.

"Oh for goodness sake," Sherlock muttered with an eye roll. Too impatient to wait, the detective quickly lunged forward and grabbed his brother's hand. "See?" Excited by the prospect of sharing his experience and proof of the miracle he was growing, Sherlock removed his other arm, risking and showing his vulnerability. The detective's robe fell over with a gentle 'swoosh.'

"Sherlock, what on earth are—" But before Mycroft could finish, Sherlock had pressed his hand to the ivory, taut skin of his protruding belly.

"Shush. Feel." The two waited in silence, Mycroft staring at his brother as if he was absolutely insane, with the detective's mouth quickly curving into a tender smile.

"Sherlock, I'm not quite sure this is—" Mycroft stopped, gasping aloud as he felt a gentle thumping beneath his fingertips. A gentle thrumming that had originated from under his brother's skin... Inside him... From the baby he was growing and nurturing. "My, God," he breathed, staring at the hand covering the flutters and kicks he was feeling. "And you feel that?"

"Mmm-hmm," Sherlock hummed, half smiling, half smirking at his elder brother. "All the time. Feels quite different from the inside than it does from the outside, though," he chuckled.

"That's incredible."

"I quite agree."

"Does she react to anything?"

Deciding not to point out the fact that Mycroft had called his baby a "she," Sherlock merely smiled and gave a nod of his head. "She responds to light, touch, and music."

"Really?"

"Yes; if you shine a light on one side of the stomach, the baby will move to the other side, so as to avoid the light. I've also noticed an increase in movement when I play my violin, or any classical music, for that matter. She also responds to my voice, as well as my touch. It's… quite incredible. She is, I mean."

"Well, you're clearly very smitten with the little one," Mycroft drawled fondly, removing his hand, and allowing Sherlock's to take its place.

"Mmm. Well… As is to be expected, I suppose."

"Quite… Well, I also wish to express the fact that I would be more than happy to provide any financial help you may need."

"Ah. Thank you. That is… Very considerate of you."

"Yes, well… Anything I can do to help. That's quite amazing," he added quietly, nodding towards his brother's exposed stomach.

"Yes. It is."

With an awkward cough to clear his throat, Mycroft's gaze briefly traveled to his brother's middle, and then back to his face. "Right. I'll be off. And you will let me know if and when you need anything?"

"Of course."

"Good. Thank you."

"For what?" Sherlock rumbled.

"For sharing that—this—with me."

"Ah. You're very welcome… Uncle Mycroft," the detective added with a smirk.

"Oh, please." Mycroft returned the smirk with an eye roll that would put even the Great Sherlock Holmes himself to shame. "Let's not overstep the sentimental boundaries."

"You'd might as well begin getting used to such a nickname."

"Nonsense." Quite clearly uncomfortable with the way this conversation and visit were going, Mycroft stepped away and retrieved his umbrella. "I shall be off."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed fondly, the smirk still fresh on his cupid's bow lips. "Quite. Good afternoon, brother."

"Indeed." With a nod, the government official was making his way down the stairs, his tell-tale footsteps clonking their way down each step. Sherlock decided to ignore the fond smile on his brother's lips.

 

 

John returned home with the shopping, feeling as if he was in a better mood than when he had first left. The doctor quickly deposited all of the shopping into the kitchen and then placed the items in their proper faces. It wasn't until he realized he'd been humming to himself that John noticed he was not the only one making noise. Through the closed screen door that blocked the kitchen from the sitting room, John could hear the vague pluckings of music floating their way under and through the door, the sounds of which were mixed with the distinct rumble of Sherlock's baritone voice.

Smiling slightly to himself, John crept to the other side of the kitchen and turned his head, so as to hear better.

"… mustn't mind him. He'll warm up to you, not to worry." A few more gentle plucks of the delicate strings. "My brother just does not yet understand. But you'll see. He will… Either way, I like you just fine." John was quickly realizing that the notes his flat mate was playing were quickly forming a sort of lullaby, one he hadn't heard before. There came a sudden huff from the sitting room. "Insufferable. Must you move so much? I'm playing for you. See? That usually calms you down… Although, I suppose a visit from Mycroft would upset anyone. Apologies. I quite understand."

John smiled to himself as the playing continued. He quickly peeked his head out and saw that Sherlock was lying on his side on the couch, violin propped up against his belly. The detective was plucking the strings with one graceful hand. The other was draped lazily over his bare stomach, pale fingers absentmindedly curling and uncurling against the equally-alabaster skin. It really was quite incredible how Sherlock had this hidden reservoir of kindness, reserved only for the little being he was carrying and growing inside of him. Whenever he would speak to the baby, suddenly his voice would soften and change tone, his entire frame would release the tension it had been holding, and he would merely be having a tender conversation, speaking in a voice reserved only for his baby.

"Anyway… But enough about my brother. One can have far too much, and I quite agree that we've both reached our limit, hmm?" A chuckle. "Exactly. Now, as soon as John stops eavesdropping from the doorway we can continue our reading, yes?"

"Wha—I didn't even make a sound!"

"You were thinking. Very loud… And annoying."

"Right. Of course it was. In my defense—"

"Shut up, John."

"Right."

Half-smiling, half-smirking, John took a step into the kitchen and quickly retrieved an item he'd been saving. "I want to give you something."

"Fruit? Excellent. I've been waiting." With unimaginable beauty, Sherlock swung his legs off the couch, gently propped his violin against a pillow, and wrapped his robe around his middle before striding into the kitchen. "What kind did you… Perfect." Feeling the hunger he'd been ignoring, the detective quickly found a carton of strawberries and hurried over to the sink, grabbing a bowl in the process. "Thank you, John," he added quickly as he popped a fruit into his mouth.

"Yes, of course, you're welcome. But, uh… That's not what I wanted to give you."

"Oh?" Genuinely curious, and hoping to deduce what John was going to give him, Sherlock quickly swallowed and then turned, scrutinizing the doctor with his exceptional eyes.

With an eye roll and a smirk John produced the surprise, holding it between his fingers.

"An envelope."

The grin quickly faded from the doctor's lips. "Open it, you daft git," he chuckled in exhaustion.

"Ah. Hormones. Makes my mind…" A smirk. "Oh, shut up, John." Sherlock quickly snatched the envelope from his friend with frustrated fingers. "Probably some bloody sentimental…" Inside the envelop was a DVD and a picture. An ultrasound picture, and a disc with a date. "What is this?"

"Do you remember that ultrasound the other day where you fell asleep?" John laughed.

After blushing a light scarlet across his sharp cheekbones, Sherlock merely gave a simple nod of his head.

"Right, well... That's it. I figured you would want to see the baby, so I made a DVD of the entire ultrasound itself, and then took a still. I thought now might be a good time to give it to you."

Brows tugged together in an expression of mild confusion and curiosity, Sherlock's eyes painstakingly examined the photograph grasped in his fingers. "This is the baby?" he murmured, sounding rather dazed.

"Mmm-hmm. Also, I thought, you know, for memory's sake you might want one of the ultrasound visits to be documented."

"Oh. I must admit, I... Hadn't thought of that. Thank you, John."

"You're welcome," the doctor hummed in response, feeling almost giddy at the shocked, yet pleased smile toying with the corner of his friend's lips, and knowing that he'd put it there.

"And they're mine? To keep?"

"Of course!"

"It's beautiful."

"Yes. It is. Do you want to watch the video now? I could go get the DVD player ready—"

"No, thank you, John. Though I do appreciate the offer, I think I would prefer to watch the video by myself... To, you know, uhm... Yes."

"That's all right," John chuckled. "I quite understand. It's an intimate thing. Anyway! So, there you go. Thought you'd like that."

"Well, for once, you were actually right, John," Sherlock stated smugly, tucking the photo and the disc back in the envelope.

"Annnnd he's back," John sighed with eyes raised to the ceiling.

"You can't expect me to kind at all hours of the day, John. Really. That's just naïve... Not to mention unrealistic."

"Right. My apologies. Just assumed that, you know, all those pregnancy hormones might be replacing all those Holmes hormones in there."

The smirk quickly faded from the detective's lips, to be replaced by a deadly glare. Tucking the envelope inside his robe and under his arm, Sherlock returned to his fruit, absentmindedly touching his stomach every once in a while as he prepared the food.

 

 

When John was preparing to go to bed, he carefully made his way down the stairs in the dark, planning to get a quick something to drink. He was surprised to find that his flat mate was not seated in the kitchen, nor the sitting room.

Glass of water in hand, the doctor silently crept his way to Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock, are you… Oh."

The detective was lying on his side on the bed, curled up into a little ball, with his laptop, which was playing the ultrasound video, resting on his hip and partly on the curve of his belly, sound asleep.

Smiling fondly to himself at the almost sweet sight, John set his water down and then carefully removed the laptop from his friend's hip. It was only then did he realize that the photograph was grasped protectively between the detective's other hand, which was resting gracefully at the point where his stomach began to slope and grow.

"Oh, Sherlock… You big softie." He silently crept back out of the room.

A small smile crept over Sherlock's lips as he heard the door shut. Not bothering to open his eyes, nor release his grip on the ultrasound photo, the detective searched blindly for the computer, found it, returned it to its previous resting place, and opened it. The sound of a little heartbeat beating so rapidly it seemed it should fly out of the computer quickly filled the room.

Sherlock released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding… And quickly fell asleep to the sound of the proof of his baby. A heartbeat.


	9. Left Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just wanted to give a huge thank you to all who have commented, left kudos, favorited, and read! You all are my inspiration and have been so kind and supportive! So thank you so very much! Also, this has not been proofread, so if there are any mistakes that are just truly horrible, please let me know and I will change them as soon as possible! Hope you enjoy! Thanks guys!

**31 weeks**

"John!" Sherlock whined from where he was splayed over the couch, feeling completely like a beached whale.

"What, Sherlock?" the doctor groaned in response, entering from the kitchen. "Something else I can get you?"

"I feel awful." John could hear something like a whine mixed with a groan emit from between his flat mate's lips. There was a sharp intake of breath, and the doctor saw Sherlock's lithe fingers quickly travel to his stomach.

"Kicking?"

"Mmm. Quite sharp ones, in fact. They are not as frequent anymore, but still quite uncomfortable when they do occur… Rather take the breath away."

Suddenly regretting his terse tone, John released the tension he didn't even realize he'd been holding in his hands. "Is there… anything I can do or get you?"

"A blanket and a cup of tea would be more than incredibly lovely," Sherlock murmured, allowing his eyes to slide closed, so as to allow him a moment of peace, considering he now barely slept at night.

"Sure, sure." John dared a quick sideways glance towards his terribly pathetic-looking flat mate and then scampered away into the kitchen.

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a small gasp at the sensation of John carefully draping a blanket over his curled-up form. "Oh." Removing a hand from the growing protrusion of his belly, the detective carefully kneaded several fingers into his temple, finding he now had a headache.

"How is it that you always wake up whenever I'm trying to do something nice for you?" John chuckled in exasperation.

"Mmm. Keen senses, John. Even while I'm resting and riddled with hormones," the detective muttered, trying to remove his attention from the pounding in his head. "Not that you'd understand, either way, given the state your senses are in," he added with a sly smirk.

"Oh, shut up," John huffed. "Here you are." The doctor carefully offered the tea.

"Mmm. Thank you," Sherlock sighed in relief, taking the cup with his free hand, while simultaneously placing the other once again atop his stomach, a rather commonplace position now.

"Of course. Sorry about… you know."

"No, I don't."

"What?"

"I don't know what you're sorry about."

"Oh," John chuckled, taking a seat in his chair. "I'm sorry about all of the uncomfortableness, and the kicking, and Braxton Hicks, and the inability to sleep at night. But, we're almost there."

Sherlock took a pensive sip of his steaming tea. "Yes… Almost… John?"

"Yeah?"

Unsure quite how he wanted to phrase what he was wanting to say, Sherlock heaved a sigh, and then, tea in hand and blanket wrapped around his body, he sat up the couch, groaning from the effort and difficulty. "My Lord, you are difficult," he muttered, though rather affectionately, to his middle. "John."

"Yeah?"

"I was just… Wanted to…" Struggling for the proper words, Sherlock began to toy with the handle of his cup, fingers, still impossibly thin, running back and forth over the smooth surface and curves. "Will you… When it happens, I was wondering if—"

"When what happens?" John asked confusedly, brows tugging together as he gazed at his friend.

"You know—it." Sherlock stared expectantly at John, as if this was further explanation.

"It…"

"Dear God, John," Sherlock groaned with an eye roll. "The bloody birth!" As if wanting to make sure that his flat mate finally understood, the detective gestured with his eyes to between his legs, which instantly caused a dark pink flush to rise high on his sharp cheekbones.

"Oh!" John laughed in understanding, unable to stop his giggles at how positively embarrassed Sherlock was.

"Please. Just… When it happens, I was wondering if you would… Assist."

"In what way?" John sighed, still rather gasping for breath.

"Well, of course a hospital delivery would be preferable, so I suppose I would just… Feel more comfortable if you were present and… Possibly helping… With it."

"Oh." Sobering slightly, John's fingers curled against the arm of his chair at the task Sherlock was asking of him. "You want me to help?"

"Yes."

"With the birth?"

"…Well, yes."

"…Help?"

With a sigh and an eye roll, Sherlock stood, draping the blanket around his shoulders. "And we're back to getting nowhere. I need a shower. Excuse me." The detective made to turn towards his room.

"Oh—Sherlock."

"Mmm?" The detective turned to see his friend hurrying towards him. "Yes?"

"I would be delighted to help," John murmured carefully. "If that's what you really want, I mean… It would be my pleasure."

A hint of a smile briefly danced over Sherlock's lips, one of the first John had seen in quite some time. "Excellent. Thank you, John." With a fond nod of his head, the detective turned and silently padded into his room.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he heard water quickly filling the pipes of the flat. "What are we going to do with you?" he chuckled fondly.

In the bathroom, Sherlock carefully stripped what few clothes he was wearing and, after switching on the water, padded over to the sink, where he planted a hand to either side of the tile… He was positively exhausted and, as he dared a glance at himself in the mirror, it was clear in the planes of his face, and the dark bags under his eyes. "My dear," he murmured, placing a hand to the top of his stomach. "I wouldn't trade you for anything… But I am more than ready to be done with all of this…"

Sherlock had never been so uncomfortable. His feet ached, he couldn't sleep in any position without feeling as if there was something preventing him to do so, he was now unable to lie on his back—practically the only position he was able to think properly in—he more or less felt as if he could break into tears at any moment—a highly alarming thought—and, as if to top it all off, movement was becoming less and less frequent; he was now receiving none of the little wonders and miracles that proved his baby was well and alive and kicking… Nothing to make the uncomfortableness and pain seem more bearable.

And… Though he would never admit to anybody, and was—quite frankly—hesitant to admit it to himself, Sherlock was positively terrified. _No. We're not going there_.

Running a hand through his curls, Sherlock dared one last glance at his exhausted-looking form and then carefully stepped into the shower.

 

 

 

Deciding to tidy up a bit while his flat mate was in the shower, John began to clean the sitting room, knowing Sherlock—though he would never voluntarily clean, anyway—was too far gone with the pregnancy to even think about bending over to pick up anything.

Once he had picked up and discarded the various bits of trash that had been strewn around the flat, John turned his attention to the couch, and quickly placed the pillows that had fallen off back on. He was careful to put one of the pillows low enough so that Sherlock would be able to use his legs to maneuver it between his knees, and then placed the other one where the curve of the detective's spine would be, having learned by now where his friend needed the pillows to provide maximum support and relief.

When he moved one of the last pillows, the doctor spotted Sherlock's laptop hidden beneath it. Realizing that he'd not looked at its since the last time, when he'd first found the chart Sherlock was keeping, John decided he'd take a quick peek at it again. Checking to make sure water was still running steadily through the pipes, John quickly grabbed the laptop, and then moved to his chair, knowing if he sat down on the couch, Sherlock would be able to tell because of the depth at which the cushions sank—or something impossibly clever like that—that he'd snooped on his laptop.

Huddling into the familiar confines of his chair, John pulled open the slender laptop, pleased to find Sherlock had still removed his password, and then clicked open the spreadsheet already open at the bottom.

The doctor quickly skipped over everything he'd read the last time, smiling, however, when he saw the number of stretch marks were still at a big, resounding: **ZERO**. John noticed that, as the weeks wore on, the number of kicks lowered, as was to be expected. But, it was clear Sherlock was worried by the lack of movement, as next to the most recent week there was a question: _Why is kicking rapidly becoming less frequent? Conduct investigations into why movement is lacking. Possible explanations: lack of space available for movement, movement is no longer necessary to the fetus for developing purposes, fetus is comfortable with environment and as such no longer requires movement. Explanation one most likely_.

John smiled fondly to himself and then scrolled down and found a few new sections, one of which was labeled: number of rolls. The doctor assumed this meant the number of times the baby had shifted completely, or rolled around. John frowned slightly when he saw a section devoted to aches and pains, where they occurred, and how frequently they happened. "Sorry, Sherlock," he murmured when he noticed that there was near-constant pain that resided in the detective's lower back. He knew the detective had ever had any other weight other than: incredibly thin. Therefore, the doctor could only imagine the toll the additional weight of a baby was taking on his friend's body...

Moving on, the doctor saw a category labelled: increased heart rate. This category had the dates marked in which (he assumed Sherlock's) heart rate had increased, and what it had increased to. John noticed that each increase of heart rate directly correlated with either a kick, movement, or roll… John couldn't help but smile at the thought.

The doctor carefully scrolled down to the bottom, and then the smile slipped from his face as he saw: **John Watson get off my computer**.

"Unbelievable," the doctor muttered as he stared at the typed words. "Clever git."

Heaving a rather amused sigh, John released a small chuckle as closed the laptop, still musing about the information he'd seen. Smiling, the doctor carefully moved back over to the couch and meticulously placed the laptop back where he'd found it. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed, placing his hands on his hips as he glanced towards the detective's room. "You'll do just fine," the doctor murmured fondly.

John had to admit to himself that, when the pregnancy had first been discovered, he had seriously doubted his friend's ability to even process the fact that he had a human life growing infuse of him, let alone that Sherlock would grow to the love the little being, and show the love in impossibly tender ways.

Smiling to himself, John realized how incredibly proud of his friend he was for enduring what he had—and would continue to.

The doctor was pulled from his musings, however, by the sound of the water switching off. Not wanting to be discovered, the doctor quickly stole away into the kitchen and occupied himself by making a cup of tea.

 

 

 

Sherlock always felt better after a shower. It was just a given that after every hot shower, his aches seemed less prominent and he felt generally refreshed.

Reveling in the brief break from pain, Sherlock grabbed a towel and quickly dried his hair and body, realizing once again how grateful he would be once his body returned to its former lithe shape.

Rubbing around his wrists, which had really become more of an afterthought at this point, Sherlock found a pair of pajama trousers, threw them on, and then wrapped his robe around himself.

"Ah. There you are," the detective chuckled to himself when attempted to lie down on his bed and was met with a swift kick under his ribs. "Wonderful timing, as usual."

Sobering slightly as he was met with the silence of his room, Sherlock placed both of his large, pale hands to his equally-pale middle and then splayed his fingers so they were covering as much of the skin as possible. It was unfathomable to him that his baby was existing a mere few inches below the pads of his fingers.

Sherlock felt his heart start to pound a little faster at the prospect that in a few weeks, his baby would no longer be under his hands, but _in_ them… She would no longer be protected by the skin of his middle, but would rather be in the world, facing the real dangers of that world. How was he supposed to protect her when she was not within him, to be carried around and protected?

"Shh, we're fine, love," he whispered soothingly when the baby started to shift and kick nervously. "My apologies." Smiling fondly, as if to reassure his child, Sherlock rolled onto his side, keeping one hand firmly cradling his middle, and retrieved the sonogram picture from its now-permanent hiding place under his pillow. "That's you," he murmured, deep baritone voice filling the otherwise-silent room as he glanced down towards his middle. Though it might have been his overly-tired mind trying to compensate, the detective could have sworn he felt as if the baby was settling in, relaxing.

"You're so tiny," Sherlock whispered, stroking a finger over the image of his baby's incredibly small head."You're beautiful. Absolutely beautiful… I can't believe you're… Hmm." Knowing it was merely the hormones that had been attacking his body and mind recently, Sherlock allowed his eyes to fill up with elated tears as he stared at the picture John had been thoughtful enough to take of the baby residing within him. "And I am positively smitten with you," he murmured, rubbing a thumb along the curve of his abdomen. "I love you, little one… Mmm. You're simply wonderful…"

For the first time, Sherlock realized what a miracle it truly was that he had a baby—a child that was his to love—growing and developing within him at all. And, no matter how horrible the circumstances were that allowed her to be there, how unnatural, how strange, how unconventional, how unusual the situation was, Sherlock knew that he would not change any of it. Though he did not yet understand how it was possible to feel such a strong love for someone you've not even met, Sherlock knew that he was already completely and totally enamored with the little baby he could feel shifting in his middle. "I love you, little one… And I simply cannot wait to meet you," the detective finished softly, pulling his slender legs up so they were just barely touching the alabaster skin at the bottom of his belly, and wrapping himself around the protrusion of his belly, as if to make sure his baby knew she was loved by enveloping her in the closest thing he could offer to a hug. "My goodness… Look what you've done," Sherlock practically laughed when he noticed his cheeks were warm with tears. "You've gotten me to cry. Not an easy feat," the detective chuckled as he wiped away the salty tears and laid his head down on the bed.

Draping his arm lazily over his stomach, Sherlock allowed his fingers to curl against the curve of his belly as he felt the pull of exhaustion begin to drag his eyelids down. Feeling more comfortable, more at home, and more at peace than he had in a long time, the detective merely allowed himself the pleasure of resting in the complete silence and peace, the image of his baby clutched between his fingers and filling his mind.

 

 

 

**33 weeks**

"Shut up, Lestrade," Sherlock muttered as he took a seat in the Detective Inspector's office, Belstaff draped completely over his middle. "Of course I'm sure. Did you not see the shoe print? I analyzed it, and it was obviously from two weeks and three days ago. Therefore…?"

"The only suspect we had that didn't have a genuine alibi for that day is Mr. Fredrickson," Lestrade murmured, sound rather embarrassed as he picked up his desk phone.

"There we go," Sherlock chuckled with a raised brow.

"Play nice," John warned.

"Trying to, but admittedly the baby is making it rather difficult to be patient. I've had to use the loo for the past thirty minutes, and it is become rather unbearable, but seeing as everyone in this bloody building is apparently incapable of solving even the simplest of—"

"Sherlock! For God's sake, if you have to use the loo so badly, go!"

The detective scoffed. "You've completely missed the point. The point is not that I must use the restroom, the point was that my terseness is not my fault. It's this." Sherlock gestured to his hidden middle, which emitted a laugh/snort from both Lestrade and John. "Oh, fine," Sherlock huffed. "It's partly not my fault…"

"Better," Lestrade laughed, hanging up the phone with which he'd just related Sherlock's findings into. "Right, then. All that's taken care of. Thank you again."

Sherlock merely nodded his head in response, shifting in the chair so he could find a more comfortable position.

"So, how far along are you?"

"Thirty-three weeks, two days," Sherlock answered immediately. "Approximately."

"Oh!" Lestrade laughed, smiling fondly at the young detective. "Getting close, then. Nervous?"

"No," the detective answered, though far too quickly.

Lestrade noticed as Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor and he began to run his fingers over and through each other. "Right… You know that's perfectly normal, right? To be nervous, I mean."

"I'm not nervous."

"Sherlock."

Worrying his bottom lip, Sherlock tried his best to set his jaw and then hesitantly met Lestrade's gaze. The Detective Inspector could instantly see the detective's vulnerability swimming and pooling in his impossibly blue eyes. "You're having a baby. You. You'll do great." With a reassuring smile, Greg reached forward and placed a hand to his friend's shoulder, gave it a quick squeeze, and then carefully removed it.

Sherlock merely nodded in reply. He knew he should be grateful for Lestrade's kindness; after all, he'd been the one who helped him through his past drug problems. But he was finding that he was embarrassed around the Inspector whenever his pregnancy was mentioned. The detective supposed that was because Lestrade was the closest thing to a father he'd ever had.

"Thank you, Greg."

"Mmm. You're quite welcome. Listen, I uh… Ahem. If you would like me to… I would be more than willing to… You know…"

Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation, sending John a glare when the doctor began to laugh. "Why does everyone _always_ assume I just 'know?'"

"What?" Lestrade asked, glancing confusedly between the frustrated Sherlock and his laughing flat mate.

"Please elaborate," the detective huffed, not noticing as his fingers made their way to his hidden stomach.

"I just mean… When this all happens—uh—the birth… If you would like me present, I'd be more than willing to come and… Help out. Moral support, I mean."

"Oh." Sherlock sobered. "Thank you, Lestrade. That would be… Lovely. Yes. Thank you." The detective couldn't help but smile, himself, when he saw the Inspector's face instantly light up.

"Great, then! I'll be there! Just give me a call when it starts happening! Right, then… Now, if you're interested, I have another case for you."

"Finally! I was worried I'd have to go home and be stuck with John's cooking again."

John rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile fondly at the exchanged he'd witnessed between the two men. He knew Sherlock and Greg shared a special understanding of each that he would never know the details of. And that was just fine by him.

 

 

 

**34 weeks**

"John!" Sherlock called, sounding absolutely terrified, from where he was seated at his microscope, examining a series of samples from the latest case Lestrade had handed him.

The doctor quickly hurried into the kitchen, worried the detective might have gone into labour. "What, what?" He found his friend, staring terrified at his stomach, with a hand under the lower curve of his belly. "Are you—what's—Sherlock, are you hurt?"

"What's happening?" the detective merely stuttered in response. "Has something happened?"

John turned his attention to where his friend was staring in horror, and breathed a sigh of relief at the same time he released a laugh. On the right side of Sherlock's stomach, in intervals of two to three seconds, there would be a little bump, as if the baby was tapping the detective's middle from the inside. "The baby's hiccuping, Sherlock," the doctor laughed, covering the spot with his hand. "Everything's all right. It's just hiccuping and trying out those muscles."

"She's… Hiccuping?" Sherlock murmured as he continued to stare at the spot. "Well… She can stop anytime; it feels incredibly bizarre."

"I can imagine so," John laughed, giving the taut skin of his friend's belly a pat. "But still perfectly normal."

"Mmm. I suppose I didn't even realize she was capable of hiccuping."

"Yes. It's a tad bit odd."

"Indeed… Thank you, John."

"Yeah, of course. You gave me quite a fright there," John chuckled, relieved that Sherlock had not gone into labour as he'd initially suspect.

"Why is that?" the detective asked, returning rather distractedly to his microscope.

"I thought you'd gone into labour." John saw Sherlock's finger still on the knobs on his instrument and noticed the muscles in his forearms contract.

"Oh," the detective murmured, not removing his gaze from the samples, though it was clear he was not studying them anymore.

"Yeah. Speaking of, we should have some sort of game plan, or something, for when that actually does happen. I mean we're rather quickly approaching your due date."

"Yes, I… Suppose we are."

"Yes. Just promise me that if and when you feel anything unusual, you'll tell me, all right? I know we've still got a few more weeks, but I'd rather be sure. Promise?"

"… Promise," Sherlock murmured.

"Right, then. Good. Thank you… How's the case coming?"

"Incredibly slowly. I can't get anywhere with just these dirt samples! Impossible, John. Impossible."

John stifled his chuckle in his hands as he moved over to one of the windows and glanced out. "Mmm," he hummed as he glanced at the skies.

"What's that?"

"Weather claims we're supposed to be getting a snow storm sometime soon."

"And?"

"And by the looks of the sky, I'd say they're right."

"Mmm. Uninteresting."

"I'm sure it is." Smiling to himself, John left the window and, with once last glance to his focused friend, whose hand was covering the spot where you could see the baby's hiccups, plopped down in his chair and began reading that day's newspaper.

 

 

 

**35 weeks**

"Unbelievable," John murmured from his position at the window.

"What's that?" Sherlock responded, sounding rather uninterested from where he was lying down on the couch, curled around himself, and with his eyes closed.

"It's snowing. No—it's snow-storming. Unbelievable. The weathermen were right."

"Mmm. My apologies for not really caring, but you see—" There was a sharp intake of breath.

"You all right?"

"Mmm. Just give me a moment," Sherlock whispered, keeping his eyes pressed shut. "Braxton Hicks."

"Ah," John sighed in understanding. "Anything I can do?"

"No, unfortunately, I don't think so. If you can find a way to get me a tonic or something—I'd accept anything at this point—to get this whole thing going, I would quite literally be in your debt. I am so incredibly ready to not be pregnant."

"Mmm. I can imagine so. I'm sorry, mate."

"Me, too."

John stared at his friend's curled-up form, knowing the detective was desperately trying not to fall asleep, as he was trying to solve a case and—in his mind—sleeping during a case was a waste of valuable investigating time.

"I need a drink," the detective declared suddenly, forcing his eyes open as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Oh, here, let me get it for you."

"No, no, that's quite all right. I need something to wake me up anyway." Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock absentmindedly pulled his robe around his middle and padded into the kitchen, where he grabbed a glass and a towel.

"You're sure you don't want any help?" John worried, quickly following his friend and leaning against the doorway.

"I'm not going to break, John," Sherlock sighed, simply too exhausted to muster up an argument. "I just need to stay awake so I can solve this bloody case." There came a small sigh from the back of the detective's throat and John saw, as he was filling up his glass with water, his flat mate's hand travel to the curve of his spine.

"More?"

"Indeed." Releasing a breath he'd been holding, Sherlock removed his hand from his back and, glass in hand, turned the water to its hottest temperature, and then placed the small hand cloth under. "How on earth could he have gotten to opposite ends of the city in less than four minutes? It's simply impossible," he muttered as he padded back into the sitting room and resumed his position on the couch, with John following closely behind.

"Well… We're sure he didn't use any of the public transportation systems, right?"

"Mmm."

"Would the trip be possible if he had his own car or something like that?"

"No, impossible. Even if he managed to avoid traffic, it's statically impossible for him to avoid every single on of the stoplights."

"Right, right… Well, maybe there's some sort of underground… Or… Buddy system, or…"

"...Underground! Underground, John, you've done it!" Sherlock cried enthusiastically, pausing his lying down so he could grin at his flat mate. "That's it! Quickly! We must tell Lestrade and take the tracking system to him! Right, then! Off we go. Come along, John!"

"Hey, hey, hey. No." Before Sherlock could even manage to get himself into a standing position, John was over, pushing him back down. "I'll go, but you're staying."

"What? Why?"

"Because the roads are terrible, you're thirty-some weeks pregnant—"

"Thirty-five."

"Fine. You're thirty-five weeks pregnant, and I am most certainly not even going to risk the chance of a crash. No. I'll go, you stay."

"Sound logic, I'm afraid. But… If I'm at risk of a crash, then the statistics are the same for you. And, should you crash, how am I supposed to even attempt to do this on my own?" The detective gestured to his bare belly.

"You'll do just fine," John scoffed, offering a warm smile. "You're already a terrific father. Don't worry, I'm not going to crash. I'll go over to the Yard and come right back. Promise. You'll be fine."

Frowning, Sherlock threw himself back onto the couch, now pouting at the fact that he was not allowed to go.

"Oh, you'll be all right."

"Debatable," the detective merely grumbled in reply, taking the warm cloth and positioning it on his back.

"Be back," John chuckled, pulling on his jacket and then hurrying down the stairs.

Sherlock merely glared at the fireplace, long after he'd heard the door close. "Can you believe him?" he asked to his stomach, where the baby had just decided to shift ever-so-slightly. "We'd be all right, yes?" A sigh. "Condemned to the bloody flat… Insufferable. What do you think? Agree? Hmm? Oh." Sherlock closed his eyes as he was met with another quick, but sharp pain. "Quite tired of those."

Readjusting the warm cloth on his back, and once again feeling the pull of exhaustion, Sherlock merely allowed his hand to rest on the sharp slope of his shoulder blade, finding it was actually more comfortable, draped his free arm around the protrusion of his middle, and then gave himself the relief of sleep.

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a small gasp, and found that his hands was were both clutching desperately to his middle. Trying to figure out what had happened to awake him in such a manner, the detective groggily sat himself up. Something was wrong. He looked outside and saw that it was still snowing vigorously.

Feeling incredibly uncomfortable with the fact he did not know what was happening, Sherlock cradled his stomach and noticed that, though it had lowered slightly some weeks ago, it was far lower than he remembered it being.

Suddenly, as if on cue to give him his answer, there came a pain… A pain that was not like any of the others he had felt before, and one which was most definitely not Braxton Hicks.

Immediately, Sherlock realized what was happening. Feeling terror grip ahold of his heart, Sherlock merely gripped his stomach as he understood. He was in labour. And John was not here.

"Shit."


	10. Love

Shit," Sherlock breathed, staring with wide eyes at the wall, as if willing the answer as to what he was supposed to do would simply fall out and present itself if he looked at it long enough, and with enough desperation. "John…" he finally managed, the panic of uncertainty beginning to settle uncomfortably in his veins. "Yes, good. John. I need John. John!" he yelled down the stairs, hurrying over to the landing and gripping onto the frame, the panic momentarily fogging his brain. "Wait. Not here. Gone. Mobile. Okay, okay." Breath quickly increasing in speed, Sherlock's mind started to clear. He dared a quick glance towards his watch. It had been a minute and thirty seconds since he'd felt the first contraction. Good. Hurrying over to the couch and forcing himself to remain calm, the detective sat down and pulled out his mobile. Fingers flying over the buttons as he dialed John's number, Sherlock absently cradled his stomach, willing away another contraction with all his might as he heard the ringing in his ear. "Oh, come on, John," he whispered desperately. "For God's sakes pick up your damn mobile!"

When the dial tone changed to voicemail, Sherlock scoffed a sound of desperation, now truly terrified that he didn't have John to inform him on what he was supposed to do. "Okay, okay. Here we go then," he sighed, sharp features creased into an expression of uncertainty and sheer fright. "You, my dear, have the most horrible timing," the detective chuckled suddenly, if only to prevent himself from crying as he cradled his stomach. "Much like me, I suppose… I most certainly hope one of us is ready. By the way, I'm talking about you. Because I have absolutely no bloody idea as to what I'm supposed to be doing. So how about I just… Go with you, hmm?" Sherlock murmured, managing a smile as he gazed at his middle and realized that he would soon be able to see and touch and hold the little life he'd been growing inside of him for the past months.

"Okay… Okay… We can do this right?" the detective breathed airily, running a hand through his raven curls. With a few fingers still resting, as if to ground himself, on his stomach, the detective crawled onto the couch and rolled onto his side, so he was facing the back of the sofa. Heaving a somewhat pained sigh, Sherlock pulled out his phone while simultaneously wedging a pillow between his bent knees.

**To: John Watson at 9:14 a.m.**

**John. Come home NOW.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 9:17 a.m.**

**Please, John. Need you at flat.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 9:21 a.m.**

**JOHN WATSON, ANSWER YOUR MOBILE.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 9:22 a.m.**

**NOW.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 9:31 a.m.**

**When you get back, I am going to install a microchip in your head that will ring every time you get a call or message so that you will answer your BLOODY PHONE.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 9:34 a.m.**

**Fine. I do believe I am in labour and I need you here to help me.**

**SH**

**To John Watson at 9:34 a.m.**

**… Please.**

**SH**

Breath quickly becoming more rapid in pace as he sensed the tell-tale signs of a contraction quickly approaching, Sherlock merely wrapped his slender fingers around the mobile and clutched it to his chest. "Oh, John, please hurry the hell up," the detective gasped softly as he felt his whole body begin to tense up in preparation. "Oh, dear bloody hell," he moaned into the nearest pillow as the contraction started. Though the pain was not anywhere near unbearable, it was accompanied by an unimaginable bout of fear, which seems to intensify the pain in some way.

"Come on, John," Sherlock breathed into the couch as the contraction ended. "Where are you? Damn it."

He could not do this alone.

The detective took a little comfort in knowing that, technically speaking, there was another person with him. However, at the same time, it utterly terrified him, knowing that she could do nothing at all to help him; his baby's safety and life were entirely in his hands at the moment… What if he did something wrong? What if he couldn't do it at all? He needed John. John would keep them both safe.

Shuddering with fear and worry, Sherlock curled even further around himself, buried a hand in his hair and willed John to arrive with all of his might. Eventually, he heard the distinct tread of John's shoes making their way up the stairs. Sherlock sobbed a sigh of relief as another contraction started.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what the bloody hell is happening? I came back as soon as I got your…"

Sherlock nearly cried out in joy as he heard John come bounding up the stairs. "Please," he whispered as the contraction started, knowing John had paused just before the entryway and couldn't see him, curled up on the couch. The detective heard his flat mate's mobile beeping incessantly and suddenly realized that the doctor had probably lost service, due to the snowstorm, and was just now getting all of the messages he'd sent. Meaning he would be seeing the last ones in about...

"Oh my… Sherlock!"

 _Finally_. Sherlock sighed aloud in relief as he finally heard John enter the flat. "Thank god," he breathed, closing his eyes as the contraction peaked, too focused on the pain he was feeling to care about his flat mate anymore.

John, having just entered the flat, nearly froze in his place as he saw Sherlock, curled up on the couch, quite clearly in pain, breathing his way through what the doctor knew was a contraction. "Oh… Jesus, Sherlock," he cried sadly, hurrying over to the sofa and kneeling down. "Are you all right?"

"Oh fine," the detective answered, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "Just…" A breath. "Trying to have a baby," he finished, with much less fervor. "Oh." Heaving a deep breath, Sherlock's body relaxed into the sofa as the pain of the contraction slowly ebbed away. Brushing his curls away from his forehead, the detective rolled onto his side and sat up with a sound of effort. "How bad is it?"

"What?" John asked, clearly overwhelmed by the whole situation.

"Outside, John. The weather. How bad?"

"Oh. Oh… Sherlock?"

"They've closed the roads?"

"How did… Yes, yes. They've closed the roads… The cabbie almost refused to take me back to the flat."

"Mmm… Well… That's most unfortunate."

"Yeah," John scoffed, amazed by how calm his friend appeared to be. "Sherlock, listen, I don't know if I can—" John was stopped mid-sentence, both by the finger the detective was now holding in front of his lips and the absolutely icy glare from his eyes.

"You don't know if _you_ can? No. _I_ am the one having a baby. I don't want to hear it," Sherlock spat as he shoved himself up from the couch and sauntered over towards the kitchen.

"Right. Right, sorry. Of course." Realizing quite quickly that Sherlock was in a mood—and rightfully so—John decided to give the detective some space and get him whatever he needed.

"Good," Sherlock approved with a firm nod of his head. "Right, then, Doctor Watson. What do I do?" the detective asked, his bravery fading slightly with the realization that this was happening. He was in labour. With his baby.

Almost instantly switching into 'doctor' mode, John strode over to where his friend was standing, looking quite petrified now, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right. Now… When did the contractions start, how far apart are they, and how long have they been lasting?"

"Right, well, I believe the first contractions started at approximately 1:15 this morning, but they were so weak, I had just assumed they were the Braxton Hicks things you had told me about."

"Okay, good. Braxton Hicks—"

"Yes, yes, that," Sherlock sighed with a submissive wave of his hand as he started to pace around the sitting room, absently rubbing his slender fingers into his wrists and palms. "So far, I've only had three really noticeable contractions, and they were each…" He checked his watch. "Approximately twenty minutes and forty-one seconds apart. They've been lasting about forty-five seconds to a minute," Sherlock explained with a proud nod of his head, feeling he had, in some way, accomplished something important.

"Okay… And how painful were they?" John asked, quickly stripping off his coat and rolling up his sleeves as he watched his flat mate pace.

"Well, they're certainly not unbearable at this point, but they're kind of like… An irritating burn. Or painful cramp. But, as I said… Not quite unbearable."

"That's good. Okay, okay…" Kneading several fingers into his temple, John took a few steadying breaths before straightening his spine, setting his jaw, and pressing his lips together.

"Good?" Sherlock asked, with a hint of a smirk.

"Mmm. Let's have a baby."

 

 

 

**One Hour and Two Minutes**

"John," Sherlock called as strongly as he could from where he was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen.

"Another one?" the doctor asked, quickly hurrying over to his friend's side and placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on the detective's back.

"Mmm," Sherlock merely hummed in response, closing his eyes and attempting to focus on taking deep breaths in and out.

"Are they getting more painful?"

"Yes," the detective breathed, uttering a kind of sob as the contraction began to peak.

"Can I get you anything?" John asked, not enjoying seeing his friend in such obvious pain. "I could get you some sort of—"

"No!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, causing the doctor to jump. "No medication. I don't want it," he breathed, sounding strained.

"Sherlock, it may—"

"I don't care if it will help, I don't want any. Please, just… I don't want it… Oh God." Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock pressed his forehead firmly against the frame of the entryway and clutched at the nearest thing his hand could find, which happened to be John's arm.

"There you go… Just like that," John soothed, having completely given over to his doctor side. "Almost there…"

With a soft exhale of breath, Sherlock's tense body relaxed as the contraction slowly wore away. "Finally. Why on earth must you _do_ that?" he added, though he was now talking to his stomach, which he hadn't even noticed he'd been cradling.

"Sorry, mate," John apologized, removing his hand. "You know, you may want to rest."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, brows tugging together, as if in confusion.

"Doing all right?" John asked worriedly.

"My brain."

"What about it?"

"It's not working properly," the detective stated in pure horror, suddenly turning to John, petrified.

"What do you mean it's not working properly?"

"It's getting all… All muddled and foggy!" Sherlock cried worriedly with a frantic wave of his fingers as he started pacing again, occasionally brushing his fingers over his concealed middle in a hurried gesture.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me," John said in a calming voice as he trailed closely behind the detective's quickly slowing pacing. "That's perfectly natural. You're… You're going through a very traumatic experience, and, unfortunate as it may be, the body might start compensating by… Turning some things off."

"Like my mind?! No. No, that cannot happen, John. Without… John, if I can't think, if I can't—I—I won't be able to concentrate properly! No, no that's not right… John…" Looking utterly broken, Sherlock collapsed into his chair, wrapping his arms protectively around his middle before turning a teary-eyed gaze to his flat mate.

"Hey… Hey, Sherlock, look at me." Chuckling sadly at his friend's rather pathetic-looking form, John strode over to the detective's chair and knelt down, catching the detective's steel-grey gaze. "You're brain is not shutting off. It's merely distributing its energy elsewhere… Sherlock, I promise you… You are going to be just fine. You're having a baby. And we've barely just started. You're doing beautifully so far, okay? Just… Try to relax. You're still going to be brilliant as ever, don't you worry about that; your brain will still be perfectly functional and rigorous throughout this whole thing, it's just going to get a bit tired, all right? I'm sorry I said anything."

"You're sure?" Sherlock sighed, fingers curling against his bump.

"Absolutely positive. But right now… We need to focus on this, yeah?" the doctor said tenderly, placing a feather-light hand to the bottom of his flat mate's stomach. "Right?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, running a thumb over his clothed middle. " Focus. Focusing. All right. Yes, I can do that… Apologies."

"That's all right. I think I can give you a little leeway. You know… Considering," John joked with a nod to Sherlock's belly and a smile.

"Yes," the detective chuckled back in response, shoving himself into a sitting position, but keeping his hands protectively shielding his stomach. "I need to change." Without further explanation, Sherlock swiftly left the chair and strode—as well as he could—into his room.

"O—okay." By the time John had uttered the words, however, and managed to plop down in his own chair, Sherlock was ghosting back into the room, dressed only a pair of loose-fitting pajama bottoms, and was gracefully pulling on his robe.

"More comfortable?"

"Mmm. Much." Sighing in relief as he relaxed into the chair, Sherlock slowly crossed his legs, wincing slightly as he did so, before leaning back and allowing his head to rest against the back of the chair. "Mmm," he hummed, in a mix of relief and mild irritation. "This is most insufferable."

"What's that?"

"This," Sherlock murmured with a nod to his middle, before leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Maybe," John chuckled, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. "But necessary… And you're sure you want to do all this here? I could try the cab service again, if—"

"I am fine, John."

"All right, all right. Just… Making a suggestion... And making sure you want to trust me completely."

"Mmm."

"Right." Tapping a few fingers against his chair, John's gaze slowly travelled about the flat, for lack of anything better to do, before settling once again on Sherlock's splayed form. He noticed a thin sheen of sweat was beginning to form on the detective's forehead. Deciding to get his friend some water, the doctor silently left his chair and slipped into the kitchen. He returned, cup in hand, and knelt down on one side of Sherlock's chair. "Here, drink this, I…" John paused when noticed that the detective was actually sleeping peacefully, for the first time, he suspected, in several weeks. "Poor git," he mumbled fondly, placing the glass on the floor and moving back to his chair, careful not to bump his flat mate's long limbs.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed softly in his sleep, curling up on the chair and around the protrusion of his middle. A soft exhale of breath escaped the detective's lips as he settled into the cushions of the chair.

Smiling to himself, John found a blanket and carefully draped it over his friend's sleeping form, secretly pleased with himself when the detective didn't awaken. "You're doing well," he added fondly, giving Sherlock's covered arm a soft pat. "God help us…"

 

 

 

Sherlock managed to make it through four more hours of contractions just pressing his hands to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through the entire thing. And John was more than impressed and proud of him for it. Sherlock's spaces in which he could rest, however, were slowly becoming shorter and shorter, and it was clear exhaustion was starting to get to the detective. He seemed to blinking much more, though not as quickly, his lips were almost constantly parted just slightly and his breathing was slowly becoming more and more rapid as the tendrils of panic started to grip his entire—exhausted—body.

 

 

 

**Seven Hours and Twelve Minutes**

"You're doing beautifully, Sherlock. Come on, just—"

"Oh shut up, John!" Sherlock cried, though he was clinging to the doctor's hand for dear life as he screwed his eyes shut in pain at the much-stronger and more painful contraction.

"Oh, come here, dear," chimed Mrs. Hudson's voice, who had, much to her sheer horror, walked in on Sherlock mid-contraction about an hour ago. She quickly fled over to the arm of the chair and knelt down before brushing a few sweaty curls out of the detective's eyes. "Keep going, love," she crooned, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, even though Sherlock would have preferred she didn't, but didn't have the heart nor the strength to tell her so.

"Trying," he breathed, opening his eyes and fixing them on chip he'd put in the ceiling nearly a year before as he attempted to breath through the pain. "Oh God, John," he groaned unable to force his eyes open any longer. Whimpering slightly, the detective frantically attempted to take ahold of his flat mate as the pain—impossibly, he thought—increased in intensity. Fingers flying about, Sherlock eventually managed to bury them in the warmth and softness of John's jumper as he curled even further around his tense middle, pulling away from the coolness of Mrs. Hudson's cloth on his forehead. "Please," he begged, barely noticing as two sets of hands began to rub soothing circles into his back and shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John whispered, meaning it as he continued to rub circles into the detective's back. "Keep going... I'm just here, mate, okay?"

"Yes... Yes," Sherlock breathed painfully, focusing on the reassuring warmth radiating from John's body; allowing it to course from his fingertips and spread through and fill his veins. "Okay... Okay..." Entire body heaving with laboured breaths, Sherlock just rode out this much-longer contraction, clinging desperately to John and drinking in the oddly reassuring motherly-like smell of Mrs. Hudson.

"Finally," he gasped, releasing John's jumper from his clutches and collapsing back onto the couch as the contraction ended.

"Very good job," Mrs. Hudson praised, taking Sherlock's limp hand in her own and rubbing her thumb over and across the skin.

"Mmm," the detective merely hummed in reply, closing his eyes as he attempted to calm down.

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

Sherlock opened his eyes long enough to send the doctor a positively chilling glare before closing them again and returning to his breathing.

"Right. Sorry… Can I get you anything, then?"

"Bed… Bedroom."

"You would prefer to move into the bedroom?"

"Yes." Mustering enough strength to push himself into a sitting position, Sherlock briefly let his head lean back and rest against the wall before setting his jaw and taking ahold of his flat mate's arm. "Yes. Bedroom. Now… Please."

"Of course, of course." John quickly stood, allowing Sherlock to grip his arm.

With a quick intake of breath and then a hiss, the detective was upright, one hand cradling his stomach, the other clutching fiercely to John's forearm.

"Ready?" the doctor asked gently, knowing how much pain and stress the detective was going through at the moment.

"Mmm."

With careful footfalls and hand placements, the two flat mates finally made it to the bedroom, where Sherlock promptly collapsed onto the bed and curled up around his stomach, wanting nothing more than to rest. "John," he whispered, too tired to speak any louder, though the doctor's name came out more as a moan.

"Right here," the doctor responded quickly, moving to the other side of the bed and sitting down.

"John, I… I can't do this," Sherlock cried suddenly. Now that he had left the brightness of the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson, and with it all, his bravery, the detective was quickly feeling the darkness of his room wrap cold hands of vulnerability around him. "I—I can't do it! What if—if something happens, or—or… What… John, I can't!" Feeling the fear and doubts that had been just trailing around in his mind suddenly take complete hold, Sherlock pressed his face into the nearest pillow in an attempt to hide the tears he now felt streaking down his warm cheeks.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed at his friend's sad, over-exhausted, labouring form. "Sherlock, look at me," he urged, placing a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"I can't do it, John," Sherlock merely whispered in response, shuddering as he felt another contraction start to take hold of his body.

"Yes you can!" John kept a firm hold of his friend's hand as together they worked through his contraction. When finally, John could see that the pain was fading, he caught Sherlock's gaze, glad when the detective held it. "Sherlock, look at me. You are doing beautifully," he praised, enunciating the word with as much intensity as he could. "You have done beyond exceptionally well so far! And I promise you… We can do this, all right? We will do this… We're almost there, all right? Just a little longer, and then you'll have your baby and it'll all be over, okay? But until then, you have to keep going, yes? For her sake?" John murmured, using Sherlock's preferred gender, as he knew it always calmed him down, and in complete and total doctor mode.

"Yes… Okay… Good," Sherlock murmured, re-gathering his breath. Finding that the bed was actually more uncomfortable than the couch, the detective rolled onto his back and pushed himself into a sitting position. "I need to walk," he stated, burying a few fingers in his curls as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made to stand up.

"Ah. Sherlock?" John stated rather awkwardly, eyes downcast.

"Hmm?" the detective hummed, pausing his movement.

"Well, we're uhm… We're getting rather…" A sigh. "Fine. We're getting quite far along with the labour, and I just… I'm going to need to check you." Afraid that he would be met with a glare, and possibly some sort of physical assault, John hesitantly glanced up at his flat mate, only to find the detective was smirking at him. "What?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"You're just so embarrassed about it," Sherlock chuckled tiredly, though the smirk had not left his lips.

"Well, yes of course I am!" the doctor countered defensively. "You're—you're my best friend, and it just—it seems—I don't know—"

"John," Sherlock sighed, pressing a few fingers to his temple and chuckling in a somewhat-crazed way. "You could shove your whole arm up my arse, and at this point, I really couldn't care less. I want her out, and I don't bloody care what you have to do to make that happen." A shrug. "Don't care. Just do it and get it over with."

Slightly taken aback by Sherlock's no-nonsense attitude, John gave a sharp nod of his head, and, ignoring the flush rising on cheeks, quickly found a pair of gloves he'd stored away, now feeling quite embarrassed that he'd thought Sherlock would be the one who was most uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Groaning softly at the effort, the detective rolled himself back onto the bed and settled as comfortably as he could into the pillows while he waited for John.

"Right, then," the doctor mumbled, now at the foot of the bed. "Still doing all right?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, closing his eyes as he felt the tell-tale signs of a contraction quickly approaching.

"Right, then." Knowing his flat mate's pants had been shucked long ago, John quickly, and quite embarrassedly pushed the detective's legs apart, pulled down his trousers, and did the exam, knowing that another contraction had started to grip his friend's already-tired body.

"Okay," John sighed, hurrying over towards Sherlock and kneeling down. "You're almost at five centimeters."

"Is that good?" the detective groaned as he frantically tried to escape the confines of the bed.

"Yes, that's very good," John encouraged. He quickly offered an arm to help his friend, which the detective eagerly gripped onto. "Here, we need to get some more liquids in you." Sherlock merely nodded in agreement, hurrying over to the wall and leaning heavily against it.

"Will you be all right?" John asked, slowly releasing the detective from his person.

"Mmm. Yes, go."

"Right."

Sherlock released a small whimper and then a cry when he was sure John was out of earshot. "Oh… Dear Lord," he groaned into the wall, clutching desperately to stomach, as if trying to press the pain away. "Just. Come. Out!"

"What?" John asked confusedly as he glided back into the room, a cup of ice chips in hand. "Come out of what?"

"Not _you_!" the detective snapped, trying to breath through the pain. "Her!"

"Oh. Ohh… Sorry."

"Oh God, John. Why must… Uhn..."

"Sorry, mate," John mumbled truthfully, rubbing a few fingers into his friend's shoulder.

"Lower," the detective pleaded, now leaning fully against the wall and gripping the doorframe with his slender fingers.

"Sorry, what?"

"Rub lower. Please. It helps."

"Oh, right. Of course." Obliging, the doctor carefully lowered his fingers until he was kneading them steadily into Sherlock's lower back. He carefully moved them back and forth over the clothed skin until he heard the detective utter a sigh of what he hoped was relief and not pain. "There?"

"Mmm."

"Right, then." Focusing intently on that particular spot, John merely continued to move his fingers in a rhythmical fashion, feeling somehow like he'd achieved something—some small victory amidst the pain and labour that his friend was going through—when he felt Sherlock's skin begin to loosen and relax under his fingers. "There we go… Just like that. Keep going, Sherlock."

"Trying to."

 

 

 

**Nine Hours and Fifty-Two Minutes**

"How far?" Sherlock groaned from where he was lying on his back on the bed. "How far, John?"

"Six centimeters."

"Ugh!" Throwing his head back, both in defeat at the lack of quick progress and the pain, Sherlock heaved a pained sigh and rolled onto his side, deciding to breath his way through this contraction.

"Sorry, mate. But believe it or not, you're actually making very good progress."

"Sure doesn't bloody well feel like it," the detective huffed.

"Well, no. I'm sure it doesn't," John chuckled sadly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and gazing at his friend's now-bare back. "But you'll make it through."

"Oh, shut up and leave the sentiment."

"Right. Sorry."

 

 

 

**Ten Hours and Twenty Minutes**

"Sherlock, I think you should probably be resting."

"Don't want to," the detective muttered from where he was pacing back and forth across the length of his room, hands pressing steadily under his stomach and robe fluttering gracefully behind him. "Gravity. I need gravity."

"Gravity's not really going to help much at this point; that'll help when she's actually coming. But right now, we've just got to wait for her to move down, I'm afraid… Something gravity will not be much assistance with."

This gave pause to the detective's pacing. "Really?" he questioned, brows drawn together.

"Really," John responded with a chuckle. "Seriously, I would suggest lying down and resting between contractions. You'll need the energy soon enough, and I would really recommend getting as much rest as you can." To emphasize, he gave the bed a tiny pat. Sherlock merely stared at his resting hand for a few moments, as if thinking if he could glare the suggestion, or rather the whole situation, away. "Ugh. You really think so?" he sighed eventually, letting his hands drop to his sides, as if in defeat.

"Yes. I do. Doctor, remember."

"Not one that delivers babies, however, as you are very keen to remind us all." Giving a huff of indignant displeasure, Sherlock quickly pulled off his robe, draped it over the end of his bed, and crawled in, rolling on his side so his back was facing the door and his flat mate.

Suddenly, there came a rush of exhaustion that filled his entire body and began quickly pumping through his veins, causing his eyes to flutter a bit with the will to close. "Mmm… Maybe, yes," he managed, so quietly he wasn't even sure John heard.

"Maybe what?"

"Might… Be… Hmm…" With a tiny sigh, Sherlock gave in to the powerful urge of exhaustion that was tugging at his eyelids, and allowed them to slide closed. Suddenly, the bed, where as it had seemed even worse than the couch, felt incredibly feathery and comfortable; its safety seemed to envelop him, giving him a rather reassuring, radiating warmth that blossomed in his chest.

With a deep breath, Sherlock managed to get his hands to somehow find his middle, the protective holding place for his baby… His baby… Oh. Almost taken by the hands of sleep, Sherlock found himself an odd moment of peace from the pain he'd been feeling so frequently these past hours. A small smile graced the detective's lips. "Pillow, John," his deep baritone voice rumbled through the foggy haze surrounding him.

"What? Oh. Right. Here you are." The doctor quickly found the sought out item and made his way around the bed. "Ah," he smirked upon seeing his flat mate's exhausted, and quickly-tiring form. "Feeling a tad tired and going to take a rest, are we?"

"John. I am not in the mood. Yes, fine, you were correct. But quite frankly, I am thoroughly exhausted, my body aches everywhere, I am experiencing pain which you bloody well never will know of, and I am trying to shove a baby out of me. So yes, pardon me if, after ten hours of labouring, I am rather longing for sleep. Now, if it wouldn't bother you too terribly, give me my pillow, do piss off, and leave me be." Giving John a glare, Sherlock rolled onto his other side, turning his back to the doctor, wedged the pillow between his knees and closed his eyes, giving in to the exhaustion.

"Right, then. Sorry mate."

 

 

 

John was quite shocked, and strangely saddened when Sherlock slept through nearly thirty-five minutes of contractions, so completely exhausted and thoroughly spent, that the pain was not enough to shake him awake, only proving how worn and weary the detective had truly been, though he refused to let on. And for some unknown reason, John felt strangely sad that his friend had been going through such exhaustion, and yet he never let on.

Squaring his jaw, and deciding that he was going to help as much as was humanely possible, John left his friend's room, gathered up several towels and other items that would be needed for when the birthing time actually came, and then strode back in. "Here we go, mate." Placing the items at the foot of the bed, and then picking up a wet towel he'd brought in, John sat down on the edge of the bed and then, minding his flat mate's sleeping form, tenderly pressed the cool cloth to Sherlock's forehead, avoiding the detective's curls. "Keep going, Sherlock. You're doing wonderfully."

 

 

 

**Eleven Hours**

Sherlock awoke with a small gasp, jolted from his rest by an all-too-familiar pain. Frowning when his usually-keen senses did not thrum to life as quickly as they should, the detective's eyes fluttered opened a bit, and then closed again as he tried to place an unknown pressure on his forehead. _Headache? No, no pain… Well, no pain in the head vicinity, at least. Pressure… Cool… Voice… Voices, plural. Hand on forehead. Brushing hair away… Soft… Mrs. Hudson. Voice. John. Calm... Name. Sherlock…. John. Name. Sherlock…_ Oh.

"John?"

"Sherlock, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock could feel a weight shift in the bed, a sudden pressure relieving, and then felt a dip, suggesting the pressure had been returned. He assumed Mrs. Hudson had gotten up and John had taken her place. He felt another cool pressure on his forehead. "Mmm… Bloody awful," he muttered, forcing his eyes open to find John's form seated, as he'd thought, where Mrs. Hudson had once been, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.

"Yes, I'd imagine. You poor bugger. You've been out for nearly forty minutes."

"Most certainly doesn't feel like it," Sherlock grumbled as he forced himself into a sitting position, regretting it when the pain of the contraction peaked and he was unable to move from the awkward spot. "Is everything still going all right?" he breathed when the pain ebbed.

"As far as I can tell," John reassured.

"Good, yes. Good… Yes… How far along?"

"I haven't checked recently."

"If you would."

"Right."

Somehow feeling—impossibly—more tired than before, Sherlock more-or-less fell back onto the bed, letting his head rest against the pillows as he planted his feet on the bed, waiting for his flat mate.

"Ready?" John asked with a gentle pat to the detective's pale knee.

"Quite."

"Good…"

Sherlock waited patently, chuckling to himself as he heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim, "Oh!" and then quickly scurry from the room.

"Poor Mrs. Hudson," John chuckled as well. "We're probably scarring her."

"She'll be all right. She's been through this herself, so she should very well be able to watch."

"But it's different, Sherlock," John tried to explain. "You're like a son to her. And you're also at seven centimeters."

Sherlock groaned, though it really sounded more like a whimper, and then quickly rolled himself onto his side as he felt another contrition start to burn through him. "Why would it be… different?" he gasped, squeezing his mouth shut in an effort to avoid crying out from the pain.

"Nevermind," John chuckled sadly, squatting down by the bed so he was at eye-level with his labouring flat mate.

"John!" Sherlock cried, unable to contain the building pressure. Keeping his eyes pressed shut, the detective blindly reached several slender fingers out. "John, please!" he whimpered, desperately trying to find the doctor's reassuring form.

"Hey, hey. Shh… Just here, Sherlock." John reached out and wrapped his flat mate's fingers in a reassuring hold, ignoring the way Sherlock's fingernails were digging into his flesh. "That's it, keep going."

"I can't! John, I can't… Oh. Oh my… How can…" _How was this happening_? Sherlock thought, now unable to distinguish anything but the pain. He'd rested. Everything was supposed to feel better. And yet it seemed as if during the rest, his body had decided to take a break, and as such, the contractions, which were already becoming increasingly stronger, seemed to have intensified to insurmountable proportions, and the pain accompanied with them seemed unbearable, as if now his body had to build a resistance again; a normalcy to feeling such pain. "John, it hurts so… Oh God!"

John frowned sadly as he saw a single tear slide from the corner of Sherlock's eye and travel down his cheek, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. "I know it does. I know… Keep going, Sherlock."

"I can't! I can't! It's too—" A whimper. And then, unable to manage more than a whisper, Sherlock rasped, "I can't, John."

"You can and you will. Come on, you're nearly there. Don't give up now, you hear me?"

"Yes… Yes…" The pain slowly ebbed away. With a shaky intake of breath, Sherlock embarrassedly released John's fingers. "Apologies."

"Nothing to apologize for."

"Thank you," the detective whispered, still trying to regain his breath and energy. "I need to walk."

"Here, I'll help you."

"No, on my own." Feeling as if he was somehow failing, Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position and slid off the bed, instantly letting a hand travel to his stomach, which he now noticed seemed to be hanging much lower, and felt somehow flat. "John? John, what's happening?" he fretted, sprawling his fingers over the pale, exposed flesh.

"With what? Oh. Your belly?" A nod. "That's good. We want that. It means the baby is on her way to dropping into the birth canal."

"And that's good?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, staring at the lower-hanging flesh of his belly, feeling terror at the prospect that soon his baby would be here, in the real world, and not be safe within him.

"Very. That's what we want. The sooner the baby drops into the birth canal, the sooner we get to meet the little one."

"Oh. I see… I need the loo."

"Need me to—"

"Shut up."

"Okay." Bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, John stopped himself from following Sherlock and swung his arms back and forth, having nothing better to do. He watched as Sherlock's swift form quickly disappeared into the bathroom, amazed how lofty he still was with his walking. Though, it _was_ Sherlock. He shouldn't be surprised that even in throes of incredibly painful labour, the detective could mange to still be graceful.

Sherlock quickly shut the door behind him and moved over to the toilet, kneeling down in front of it, trying to subdue the nausea that was churning in his stomach. "Oh, little one," he breathed, cradling his middle with a free hand. "Come on. Come on… We can do it, yeah? We can do it." Trying to wrap his head around the fact that his baby was working just as hard as he was—though it most certainly didn't feel that way—Sherlock took a gulp of air, instantly regretting it as it only made his stomach boil worse than before.

The detective's deft fingers quickly flew away from his stomach and found the handle of the faucet, turning it on and starting it running, so as to muffle the sound of him dry-heaving into the bowl. _No. Stop it_! he mentally scolded himself, feeling childish for his reaction. He was Sherlock Holmes. He should be able to handle the situation; think through it logically. Right, yes.

With a hard shove away from the toilet, and not bothering to turn the water off, Sherlock let his limp body rest heavily against the tub, enjoying the fact that it was sturdy and grounding behind him. "Oh," he murmured breathlessly, attempting to catch his breath as he was gripped by the burning of another contraction.

"Come on, love. Let's do this." Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock quickly disentangled himself from his robe, pulling his long arms from the silky, restricting fabric. "Oh, God," the detective groaned as he felt the weight and pressure begin to sting and spread, all too familiar with the sensation. Unable to support himself through the pain, Sherlock rolled away from the tub and planted his forearms on the tiled floor, letting his bottom stick out above him as he attempted—and failed—to merely breath through the contraction.

As the pain peaked, Sherlock cried out and bowed the upper part of his body even further to the ground, as if to press himself into and through it, and then threw his forearms back over his head. He could feel the tense, straining muscles of his back traveling over the sharp contours of his shoulders, moving and spasming with the pain.

The detective could vaguely hear John knocking on the door, though he was too deep in the throes of pain to really care.

He felt like crying. He felt like tearing his hair out, yelling, shouting, screaming. Anything to get the pain to seem less significant. Sherlock gasped, nearly coughing with the strength of the intake of breath as the contraction peaked, and he felt a strange sensation. He instantly knew what it was, though the feeling of his baby moving far lower than he was used to was a new experience, and possibly one of the strangest he'd felt to date. He could feel her twisting and turning with the contraction, as if she, too, were fighting to escape the pain.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into the tile floor, placing a hand low on his stomach, where he'd felt the movement, which was still continuing. It felt strange feeling his baby's little legs and feet kicking him so low, even stranger, seeing as he'd not experienced any significant movement from her for several days. "We can do it… I feel you there… I know… I know…"

Deciding he'd had enough, John carefully pushed open the bathroom door and hurried over to his flat mate's labouring form. "Come on, mate," he murmured, helping Sherlock to his feet. "How we doing?"

"Better," Sherlock sighed truthfully. "Much better."

 

 

 

**Fourteen Hours and Two Minutes**

Sherlock spent the next several hours of his contractions on the bed, with his forearms planted on the soft cushions beneath him, and his bottom in the air.

"Okay, Sherlock," John breathed, feeling the terror he imagined Sherlock must have been feeling begin to crawl its way into his own veins. "you're at ten centimeters. That means—"

"Thank God!" Sherlock breathed, both in relief at the break in contraction and in hearing the word's he'd been longing to hear for so long. A tiny stream of tears carefully spilled their way out of the corner of his eyes and began to travel down his cheeks, mixing with the fine layer of sweat that was already presiding there. "John?" he breathed, attempting to sit up and turn himself over.

"I'm coming, mate." The doctor quickly hurried over and helped the detective.

Sherlock began to cry once again as he felt yet another contraction burn and tear through him. The detective quickly lowered himself into position and then moaned and sobbed into his forearm. Feeling a sad twinge in his chest, John kneaded his fingers into his flat mate's lower back and then used his free hand to massage the detective's tense, impossibly pale calf.

"That's it, mate."

"John, I need to push!" Sherlock cried, baring his teeth as he grimaced.

"Go on; your body knows what to do. We'll need to get your trousers off, all right?" Sherlock merely gave a nod of his head in response. "Right, then. Here we are." The doctor carefully tugged off his friend's trousers, feeling a sad twinge in his chest as he noticed the detective's legs were shaking. However, from fear, pain, or a mixture of both, he couldn't tell. "There you go. You're doing so well. All right, go ahead."

With a heartbreaking sob, Sherlock took a huge gulp of air, which he instantly regretted, and bore down with all his strength.

"That's it, very good, just like that keep going!" John encouraged. "Mrs. Hudson! We'll be needing those towels!"

"John," Sherlock choked, reaching blindly for something to hold onto as he bore down again, lowing his upper half.

"I'm right here."

"Nothing's happening," the detective sighed in defeat.

"We need your waters to break, Sherlock." Then, as if on cue, there was a gush of fluids. John cried out with a laugh of joy and excitement. Sherlock, on the other hand, was merely attempting to catch his breath as the cushion protecting his baby from the outside world dissipated and the pain intensified.

 

 

 

Pain. Unbearable, excruciating pain. Sherlock so desperately wished to escape it; to be able to just curl into himself, have his baby in his arms, and make it all disappear.

"Come on, Sherlock, the baby's so close!"

After twenty-five minutes of hard, exhausting pushing, Sherlock was lying, completely naked, save for his robe, on his back on the bed with his feet firmly planted against the sheets. A steady sheen of sweat had formed across his pale forehead and down the delicate contours of his chest. John could physically see every muscle straining in his flat mate's still-lean body, working desperately to bring his child into the world. But, the doctor also knew, Sherlock was beyond tired, and then some, and was quickly losing his strength and determination.

"John," Sherlock murmured, tangling a hand in the sheets. His chest and much-smaller stomach heaved with pained, labored breaths.

"I'm right here, mate," John sighed, amazed at what was happening before him. He was practically giddy about the whole situation and knew that if Sherlock had the energy to, the detective would be sharing in his joy.

"I… Are we almost there? I…" Sherlock closed his eyes and John saw one of his hands float to his small stomach. The detective uttered something between a sob and a laugh. "She's gone."

John merely laughed heartily in response. "She's coming, Sherlock," he reassured, placing a tender hand to his friend's forehead and brushing away the sweaty curls. "You've done beautifully."

As his body tensed in preparation for another contraction, Sherlock opened his incredibly striking eyes, and John could see a new determination rousing from the multi-colored depths of his eyes.

After giving his friend's hand a squeeze, the doctor quickly returned to his spot between Sherlock's legs and frowned sadly when he saw the detective's entire body tense, accompanied by an intense, heartbreaking sob of pain.

"Oh… Oh! Sherlock, Sherlock the baby's crowning!" John cried triumphantly, as if he'd achieved something. Sherlock merely groaned in response, too far gone to really even notice John was speaking.

"Sherlock, she's coming! Okay, okay. I need you to roll over and get back into the leaning position for me, all right?"

And, despite his over-worked mind, Sherlock obeyed. "Oh God, John, it hurts!" the detective cried, not even noticing as his forearms became stained with his tears.

"I know, I know it does. But you're so close. All right… Now, I need you to give me one, very tiny push, and then you must stop. Do you understand?" Sherlock nodded with a strong exhale of breath.

"Good… Okay, tiny push… And… Stop, stop! I've got to check for a cord, all right?"

STOP? Sherlock's mind screamed. For the first time, the true realization of what was happening suddenly struck the detective with a powerful pang. He was soon going to have another life in his arms that was his to hold, to kiss, to protect, to care for, to love… And he was just moments away from meeting her.

"All right, Sherlock, just a few more and then it'll all be over. Push through the pain… Now."

Using the intense burning he was feeling, Sherlock mustered what little strength he had left and bore down with every fibre of his being. An echo of John's voice encouraging him was vaguely bouncing around in his head.

"That's it, Sherlock!" John cried triumphantly, conflicted as to whether he should be helping Sherlock—who was yelling in pain—or merely marveling at the miracle of what was happening before him. "Come on Sherlock, hardest part. Just the shoulders and then you're done! You're so close, mate! Her head is out; she's almost here!"

With one last cry, Sherlock gripped the headboard with his graceful fingers, and gave one final push. He could feel an unbelievable stretch, accompanied by the most indescribable pain he'd felt yet. And then, in a quick rush of movement, there was nothing… Nothing but a sound… The wailing cries of a baby.

"You did it! Dear God, Sherlock, you did it," John sighed, in complete and utter shock as he reached for the towels.

But Sherlock was not listening, not really. Chest heaving with a strange tension and excitement, Sherlock rolled himself back onto his back, and desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the tiny being he could hear making the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson was in the room, and there were tender hands brushing hair off of his forehead, and sheets were being removed and then replaced with clean ones. There were voices cooing and talking in excited whispers. Sherlock could hear the sound of the front door opening, and a series of footsteps running their way up the steps, and then Mrs. Hudson was shooing people away. There was noise everywhere, ringing and buzzing in Sherlock's ears, though the only one he cared about was the too-far away sound of his baby's cries. He should be soothing, holding, kissing, helping.

"John?" Somehow, he'd moved his lips and his voice had passed them. Fingers shaking, Sherlock's hand floated down to his stomach, and he placed his fingertips to where his baby had been just a few minutes ago. The detective gasped aloud as the palm of his hand lay flat over the planes of his middle and one word completely flooded his mind: _empty_.

"John. Where… Where is she?" The detective turned his gaze to the doctor, who was grinning down at something in his hands.

"You were right," the doctor laughed, turning to smile at his incredible friend. "It's a girl!"

Senses suddenly thrumming to life in a rush that seemed to be a release of hormones and the worries of the past months and hours, Sherlock laughed aloud, finding a renewed strength burning deep in his chest. He had a _daughter_. An actual daughter. He was right, and she was here!

"Would you like to see her?" John asked tenderly.

"Please," Sherlock whispered in response, pulling his upper body free of the clean sheets around him and sitting up.

"Right, then."

Heart beating impossibly fast beneath his chest, Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John left the end of the bed, a bundle wrapped in towels nestled in his arms. "Here you are," the doctor murmured with an impossibly joyous grin as he unwrapped the tiny baby from her nest of towels and handed her to his flat mate.

Sherlock's breath quite literally escaped him as his skin touched that of the incredibly tiny baby now in his arms.

With memories of what Moran had done burning through his mind, Sherlock turned his eyes to his daughter and suddenly, every single doubt, worry, insignificant detail of hesitation was washed away as the detective's gaze fell to the baby girl crying in his arms; she was beautiful. Absolutely, utterly perfect.

"Oh," Sherlock whispered as his eyes eagerly raked over the crying baby in his arms. The detective couldn't help but chuckle as she waved her incredibly tiny arms about and bumped him in the chest. "I know… I know it… That was rather rude of us, wasn't it?" Sherlock laughed, feeling his eyes quickly fill with tears. Tears he knew were not caused by hormones. "Shh… I'm right here, love." Blinking away the blurriness, and with tenderness—seemingly too gentle for a man with such a cold exterior—Sherlock took a hand and with incredible gentleness, wrapped his slender fingers around one of his daughter's flailing arms. He was amazed to find her entire hand did not even fill the palm of his hand, but rather rested just perfectly in the dip of it.

"John," he whispered, unable to take his eyes away from the most beautiful human being he'd ever seen.

"Yeah, mate… I know," the doctor responded in a whisper of his own, smiling at the tender scene in front of him. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"You're going to need to put her under the blanket, all right? She's very cold right now. Hold her close to your chest, though. She needs your body heat."

Sherlock hastily obeyed. Tearing his gaze away from his still-crying daughter, the detective quickly grabbed the blanket and brought it up so it was covering the baby's backside, and then pressed her close to his chest. "Shh, love. You're all right," he whispered, deep baritone voice filling the room. "I've got you… I'm right here."

Sherlock felt a flutter deep in his chest when the little girl calmed upon hearing the sound of his voice. "Did I do that?" he murmured in amazement.

"Of course you did," John chuckled fondly. "She's used to hearing your voice; it's familiar, therefore it's calming."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the fact that just his voice was able to provide some sort of calm in the trauma his child was now going through. "...John?" the detective asked, his voice just a whisper.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Can I kiss her?"

"… Of course you can."

Brows pulled together in an expression of deep concentration, Sherlock watched as his daughter's cries slowly subsided to hasty breaths and whimpers, her impossibly tiny chest no longer heaving and shaking from the force of her cries. A single tear slid out of the corner of the detective's eye as he watched the baby girl squirm slightly in his arms before curling against his chest, her tiny hands resting against his skin. Sherlock could feel as her incredibly small fingers and toes curled and uncurled against him. This little baby—this tiny human being that he had _made_ and grown inside of him—was _his_... She was finally here, in his arms, snuggled tightly against his chest.

Releasing a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, Sherlock's eyes swept over the impossibly tiny wonder lying in his arms, taking in her perfect lips, which seemed to share a small resemblance to his own, her tiny, curled hands, bald head, and precious face… And then, moving cautiously so as not to hurt her in any way, the detective lowered his head and pressed a feather-light kiss to his daughter's tiny head. "John?" he asked, closing his eyes and keeping his lips resting just above the baby girl's head.

"Hmm?"

"Am I allowed to love her this much?" the detective whispered, turning his head and pressing the curve his cheek ever-so-slightly against the baby girl's head.

John merely smiled in response and, knowing people were waiting outside, silently left the room, closing the door behind him.

"I love you, little one," Sherlock whispered, allowing a smile of pure joy to spread across his cupid's bow lips as he felt another wave of tears begin to burn their way into his eyes. "My little one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations! Just wanted to let you know, that there will be more chapters, mainly about how Sherlock copes with being a new father and a ridiculous amount of baby fluff! Thank you guys! You all are incredible and I have to thank every single one who has been following and reading this! Thank you guys! I cannot possibly express my appreciation!


	11. Bonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are more notes at the bottom, but really quickly I just wanted to ask you all to please excuse the horrible mistakes I know are going to be in this. I just finished it and wanted to get it up so you guys could read it, and as such it has not been proofread. I will fix them as soon as possible. So until then, please forgive! Thank you! =)

Sherlock vaguely recognized that the door had been shut, and he was now alone with his daughter. The detective almost jumped when she gasped in his arms and stretched her shaking, little arms, still in the process of adjusting.

"Shh… Come here, love." Hoping this would be more comfortable for both of them, Sherlock lowered himself so he was lying on his back, and then settled the little girl on his chest, careful to keep her wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and pressed against the warmth of his chest. The detective couldn't help but smile when he noticed that her head fit perfectly in the dip just below his collarbone. "There. That's better, hmm?"

In response, the baby girl released a tiny sigh and continued to stretch her tiny arms, bumping the detective in the chest and jaw.

Sherlock felt a flutter of paternal love bloom in his chest and travel down his spine as he placed fingers atop his daughter's back and noticed that her entire back was smaller than his hand.

"Hey there," came the whisper of John. Sherlock turned his attention towards the door and saw the doctor take a hesitant step in, a smile on his lips. "How are you two doing, hmm?"

"She's so tiny, John," the detective whispered, turning his attention back to his baby girl. "Is she supposed to be this tiny?"

"Well, she is a tad small, yes, but she'll be all right," John assured tenderly. "Do you have a name?"

"What?"

"A name, Sherlock," John laughed. "She needs a name, you know."

"Oh, yes… I… Suppose she does… I've not really even thought about it, to be honest."

"That's all right, take your time… There's no hurry yet."

With a small smile gracing his lips, Sherlock held his breath as his daughter pressed her incredibly small, beautiful face against the skin of his chest, making a soft snuffling sound. "Lyla," he murmured, automatically reaching forward and turning her head so her nose was not pressed into his skin, and she was able to breath. "I want to name her Lyla."

"Lyla… That's perfect, Sherlock."

"You think so?"

"Of course I do." With a warm smile, John took another step towards the bed. "She really is very lovely."

"She's beautiful… And so tiny," Sherlock breathed again, unable to fathom how small she was against his chest.

"Yes… She is."

"Lyla…"

John watched fondly as a wide grin suddenly spread over his friend's lips. "Can I get you anything? I would say you certainly deserve it."

Sherlock thought for a moment, carefully stroking his fingers up and down the short length of Lyla's spine, and smiling when he felt her snuggle closer to the warmth of his chest. "I would love a cup of coffee, as black as you could possibly make it, and some sleep... And a shower," he added with a pensive purse of his lips.

"I can imagine! Right, then. Black coffee..."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Who all is out there?"

"Oh," John chuckled. "Greg, Mrs. Hudson, of course, your brother—" A groan. "Hey. Play nice."

"He's probably only going to lecture me," Sherlock murmured, though he was too focused on Lyla to really worry too much about his brother.

"Maybe… But he seems rather excited. Though not as much as Lestrade… He's practically bouncing out of his skin."

"Unsurprising," Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Should I send him in, or… Do you want a few more minutes?"

"A little more time, please… I read that skin-to-skin contact in the minutes after birth are an incredibly important bonding process for the baby…"

"And the parent," John added in a whisper. With a smile, the doctor silently left and hurried into the kitchen, making a mental note that he owed Mrs. Hudson more than a thousand thank yous, not only for her help with Sherlock's labour, but because she was currently entertaining all of the excited guests in the sitting room. John quickly started the coffee brewing.

 

 

 

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock continued to stroke his fingertips up and down the delicate skin covering Lyla's tiny spine. "Lyla," he rumbled, trying the name out on his tongue and lips. Sherlock waited patiently as the baby girl shifted under his touch, and carefully wrapped his other hand around one of her flailing tiny ones. She made some sort of cooing sound in response, high and airy, and so impossibly tiny-sounding that the detective could practically feel his heart melt in his chest.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock reveled in the feel of Lyla's chest rising and falling against his own… The detective could feel each and every one of her quick, little heartbeats. "My Lyla," he murmured, tenderly rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of her little hand.

Sherlock found, however, that he was quickly becoming uncomfortable with the bed, and decided he would have a go at standing.

Realizing he was still naked, however, but not wanting to release his baby from his grasp, the detective decided he would merely use the sheet as a cover, as well as a blanket for Lyla's colder body. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock sat up and froze almost immediately; suddenly, his daughter felt so weightless and fragile in his arms. He felt as if just the slightest move would break her.

Startled by the movement and sudden rigidness of her father, Lyla began to fuss, snuffling and gasping against the detective's chest.

"Shh… It's all right, Lyla. I'm here, love," Sherlock soothed gently, once again capturing her hand with his own. Smiling fondly, the detective slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, and winced slightly at the soreness between his legs. "Your fault… Again," Sherlock whispered fondly as, heart fluttering under his skin, he pressed a tender kiss to her temple with the corner of his lips. Holding his breath and placing a hand to his daughter's tiny back, Sherlock stood, pressing his teeth together when he was met with another sharp pain in his groin and whoosing in his head. The detective quickly forgot his own pain, however, when her realized Lyla had begun to cry again; her little body shook and shivered against his chest.

"Shh. There now." Quickly grabbing the sheet, and wrapping it around the both of them, Sherlock made sure his skin was warming as much of Lyla's body as possible. "Lyla," he cooed, deep voice just barely a whisper, in the hope that it would calm her once again. Almost immediately, the baby girl's cries ceased.

Sherlock couldn't help but grin lovingly when he felt his daughter sigh against his skin, and felt her body once again go limp in his arms. Feeling more tears of utter joy begin to flood his eyes, the detective turned his eyes to the little miracle resting against his chest, still unable to comprehend that she was his...

Having never felt more content, more perfect, Sherlock pressed his lips to Lyla's soft cheek and inhaled. The detective could feel a flutter travel up the length of his spine upon being met with her sweet, new smell. "Mmm," he hummed, voice just a rumbling baritone. Sherlock couldn't help but smile upon hearing his tiny daughter coo against his skin, voice just a hum. He turned his gaze back to his daughter's eyes, only to find they were open. Her small face scrunched up, as if seeing a bright light for the first time, and then her eyes fell shut again.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, releasing a breath that had somehow escaped him. He felt as if he might never be able to move his eyes away. "Lyla," Sherlock whispered, feeling a fresh wave of impossibly elated tears fill his eyes as his stared at his baby daughter. "My Lyla."

With a tiny hum, and as if sensing Sherlock's tender gaze, Lyla slowly and carefully opened her eyes once again, and with a few quick blinks, turned a wobbling gaze to her father's.

The detective quite literally felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.

"Well, hello there," Sherlock whispered, eyes crinkling at the corners as he stared into Lyla's eyes. The tears that slid out of the corner of the detective's eyes went unnoticed.

"Hello, Lyla," Sherlock rumbled, sculpted features creased into expressions of sheer wonder, love, and utter joy. "Hello… I… I'm not quite sure what to say… I… I'm you're father," the detective tried with a joyful sniffle. Lyla merely hummed, as if in response, which sent Sherlock's stomach into a tangled, knotted mess of flutters. "I love you, Lyla," he murmured, pressing and resting his lips against her tiny cheek. The detective could feel her tiny eyes flutter shut when they brushed against the hollow just below his cheekbone. The sensation of her skin against his was simply incredible. With a content exhale of breath, Sherlock carefully catalogued the feeling away, locking it away in the most treasured confines of his mind palace.

Having never felt more perfect, Sherlock closed his eyes, and situated Lyla so her cheek was pressed against the hollow in his. "I do," he murmured. "I cannot explain it, but I love you so impossibly much, Lyla…" The detective's brows tugged together as placed one hand to the back of his daughter's head, and used the other one to trace slow patterns onto the small expanse of her bare back. "My Lyla…"

There was a knock at the door. John silently let himself in, and couldn't help but smile at the sight of Sherlock, swaying back and forth with his back to the doorway. The doctor could see an incredibly tiny, curled hand just barely peeking up over the curve of his flat mate's shoulder. John couldn't help but laugh aloud when he noticed the detective was dressed only in a sheet.

"Stop smirking at me, John," Sherlock murmured, not even bothering to turn around.

"Sorry," the doctor chuckled, taking another step in. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful…" Sherlock answered, voice barely even a whisper. He didn't bother opening his eyes. "Just a little tired. And I am in desperate need of a shower. Oh! John, look! Oh. Sorry, love," the detective added with a chuckle when he felt Lyla jump slightly against his chest. He smiled when she once again settled into his warm hold, and then turned around, showing her now-open eyes to his flat mate.

"Oh!" John breathed with a fond smile. "Well, hello there. Aren't you just so pretty?" he whispered in a cooing tone, gazing into the baby girl's eyes, which were currently staring up at her father's neck. "My, she is just really beautiful, Sherlock." The detective merely grinned proudly in response. "Here. How about I take her, so you can take a shower?" the doctor suggest. Almost instantly, he saw the muscles in his friend's arm tense. "Don't worry; I just need to check some things to make sure everything is how it should be."

"Why? Do you think something may be wrong with her?" Sherlock asked fretfully, placing a hand to the back of Lyla's head, as if to protect her from something.

"No, no! I just… You want a shower, and I need to do some checks… I'll be careful. Promise," the doctor added with a laugh.

Debating, Sherlock swayed back and forth, pressing tender kisses to Lyla's tiny head. "…Fine," he murmured eventually. The detective felt as if he was handing his daughter away and would never get her back. Knowing she would be safe with John, however, Sherlock placed his cheek atop Lyla's head, inhaled, and then reluctantly handed her to the doctor.

Almost instantly, the baby girl began to fuss, having been removed from the warmth and safety of her father's hold, her little lungs producing those unique cries.

"John," Sherlock whined anxiously, sending the doctor an accusing glare. "Clearly she's upset and in distress."

"Sherlock, she's all right; babies cry, it's just what they do. Now, go and have a shower," John chuckled, nodding towards the bathroom. "Doctor's order."

With a rather child-like, anxiety-riddled huff of breath, Sherlock kept the sheet around his sore body and hurried into the bathroom, where the sound of Lyla's cries could still be heard. The detective desperately tired to block out the sound of his distressed daughter. Eventually, he could hear her cries and wails softening. "Thank God," Sherlock breathed, feeling a bit of tension release itself from his body. Allowing the silence to fill his ears, the detective closed his eyes, but quickly opened them again when he was met with the sting of over-exhaustion.

For once, Sherlock was given a moment just to think and feel and breathe. He realized he ached all over, especially between his legs, but yet the detective was filled with such incredible elation; he felt he could float away.

A small smile suddenly twitched over Sherlock's lips. He had a daughter. An actual daughter. Another human life that was his. She had arms and legs, two beautiful eyes, a little mouth, a tiny, precious voice... And it was positively incredible.

Joy reverberated through every fibre of Sherlocks' being as he stepped into the shower. The water falling and dripping down his sore body felt wonderful. Trying to wash away the exhaustion and the many fluids encrusting his body, the detective took a thin hand and, after cleaning his hair, chest, and extremities, made to wash the sweat from his stomach. Sherlock was met with a strange feeling upon finding it was flat; all of the progress of the last nine months was gone from its home, and had appeared in the form of the beautiful baby girl in the other room.

Somehow feeling as if he was empty, yet full at the same time, Sherlock smiled and removed his hand from his empty abdomen.

 

 

 

Sherlock emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped firmly around his hips, to find John had dressed Lyla in a nappy, and was cradling her in the crook of his arm.

"Feel better?" the doctor asked softly, with a small smile towards the baby in his arms. He turned his gaze to the detective, and his eyes instantly fell to his friend's stomach. "Unbelievable, "John muttered with a purse of his lips. "It doesn't even look like you had a child in there for eight months! Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

The detective merely smirked smugly in response. "Mycroft was able to find some positively wonderful lotions," Sherlock hinted with a raised brow.

"Bloody hell," John repeated with an eye roll. "Anyways... Are you feeling better?"

"Mmm. Much. I assume all is well? With Lyla?" Sherlock asked, trying to ignore how much he was now yearning to hold his daughter.

"Yes; she's practically perfect. She's just a bit smaller than we'd like her to be, but I don't think that will affect her too much. She seems to be doing just fine."

"Good, good." Having already dried his raven curls, Sherlock padded over to his dresser and, once John had turned away, quickly pulled on a pair of trousers and pajama bottoms, wincing slightly as he did so. Wanting to allow for as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, the detective decided he would not wear a shirt, but rather just his robe. With the silky fabric draped over his lanky frame, Sherlock hurried over to John. "May I have her?" he whispered, gazing over the doctor's shoulder and into his daughter's tired, impossibly blue eyes.

"Of course." With a smile, John carefully transferred the baby girl into her father's waiting arms.

Sherlock felt his heart quicken in his chest as his baby daughter was safe in his hold once again. Almost immediately, the detective noticed that Lyla was so incredibly tiny that he was capable of holding her with only one arm; her head was small enough to fit just in the palm of his hand, and the rest of her little body did not even stretch the length of his forearm.

Smiling, and with tears once again glistening in his grey eyes, Sherlock pressed an incredibly tender kiss to his daughter's head, chuckling deeply when she cooed happily in response, her tiny voice just a soft, airy hum.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"If you're ready and feeling better, we have quite a brood of people waiting in the sitting room—all of whom are very desperate to see her," John chuckled, smiling fondly at the scene in front of him.

"Oh. Right." Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned and angled his head, pressing his cheekbone just barely against Lyla's cheek. "Right, then. Come on, love." With careful movements, Sherlock moved the fragile life in his hands and settled her so she was resting parallel to his chest, her tiny limbs curled inward. The baby girl hummed and whined just a bit at the movement; her blue eyes fluttered open and gazed confusedly around before sliding shut when she settled once again into her father's safe hold.

"There's my girl," Sherlock whispered with a fond smile. Just as during the past few months, he could not imagine living without the feeling of his baby kicking inside of him, the detective now realized he could not live without the incredible sensation of Lyla's new, soft body curled against his own; he could not imagine living without the feeling of her tiny head snuggling against him.

"Right, then. Ready?" John asked, his hand on the door.

Sherlock turned his gaze from his daughter to his flat mate and managed a small smile. "Yes."

As John opened the door, Sherlock carefully took a slender finger and placed it inside the tiny fingers that were resting against his collarbone. The detective gasped silently as Lyla's entire hand curled around his finger, trapping his fingertip in her tiny grasp. Sherlock chuckled to himself with a find, loving smile. As he left the safety and quite of his room, Sherlock lifted his finger to his lips, taking Lyla's little hand with him and began pressing soft, impossibly tender kisses to her fingers and wrist, still utterly amazed that he'd created the wonderful baby resting contently against his chest.

"Ready, Sherlock?" came John's voice.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, yes I'm... Ready." Running the thumb over the knuckles of Lyla's tiny hand, Sherlock took a deep breath and, keeping close to John's smaller form, took a step into the sitting room. His over-loaded senses were soon assaulted with a flurry of sounds and sights.

Instantly, Lyla whimpered against her father's chest, and she awoke with a tiny cry. Sherlock could feel her weak grip tightened around his finger.

"Shh," the detective chuckled, placing his hand to the back of Lyla's head. "You're all right." Smiling triumphantly when the baby girl quieted, Sherlock turned his gaze to Lestrade, who had just reached them. "Greg," he greeted with a fond nod, though the Detective Inspector was staring at the baby girl calming in his arms.

"Wow," Lestrade chuckled, staring in amazement at Lyla's tiny body. "Sherlock… She's beautiful."

"Mmm. I quite agree."

"What's her name?"

"Lyla," Sherlock answered with a smile. He felt his breath catch in his throat when the baby girl turned against him, rubbing her small head against his chest and then snuggling against him once she'd settled; Sherlock could feel each and every one of her little fingers scratch against his skin as he her hand settled into the gap at the base of his neck. Finding he didn't care if Greg saw, the detective pressed a kiss to her temple, wanting to keep her wrapped in his arms and pressed against him for as long as was humanly possible.

"Lyla… Wow. Congratulations, Sherlock!" Greg cheered, clapping the detective on the back, which earned him a warning glare. "Oh, right. Sorry, mate."

"That's all right." With tenderness that made even Lestrade smile, Sherlock scooted Lyla up so she was resting further on his shoulder, placed a careful hand to her back, and then steadied her wobbly, weak head by pressing the curve of his cheek against her temple. Almost immediately, the baby girl pressed into the touch, snuggling against the warmth of her father's skin.

"How are you feeling?" Greg asked, taking a few fingers and placing them to Lyla's spine.

"Tired."

Lestrade merely smiled sympathetically in response.

"Speaking of," John chimed in. "Well… Not really. But still! One cup of coffee, black as can possibly." With a smile, the doctor offered a mug full of the liquid to his flat mate.

Sherlock eyes widened with the realization he could once again drink caffeine. Making sure Lyla was firmly settled against him, and keeping his cheek pressed against her temple, the detective took the mug from his flat mate's hands. Lyla cooed calmly against his skin. "I'm just here, love," Sherlock whispered as he sauntered over to his chair, where he sat and, for the first time in nearly nine months, took a sip of true, caffeinated coffee.

"Dear Lord, John," the detective hummed, allowing his eyes to fall closed, if only for a moment.

"Good?"

"Incredibly," Sherlock answered, referring not only to the beverage, but the tiny baby slumbering against his chest.

"Yes, well... You've certainly deserved it."

"Mmm. I suppose… I thought you mentioned my brother was here, as well?"

"Yeah, uh, your brother…" A glance around the flat. "Seems to have vanished."

Sherlock scoffed. "Good riddance."

"Play nice."

A fond smirk. "Not exactly my forte, John." Fingers drumming against the ceramic of the mug, turned his gaze to Lyla, whose little chest was rising and falling against his own. "John?"

"Do we have anything to dress her in? I don't want her to get cold."

"Of course." John stood, quickly retrieved the only pink onesie Sherlock had allowed him to buy and then hurried back. "Here you are."  
"Ah. Thank you. Now… How should I…?"

"Oh! Here, just lay her on your chair," John guided. Sherlock carefully obeyed.

Holding his breath, the detective stood, turned, and then carefully lowered Lyla's little body onto his chair, keeping a hand under her back, so her skin was not pressed against the cool leather of his chair, but rather against the warmth of his palm.

Having been removed once again from her father's warm arms, Lyla fussed a bit, stretching her arms and legs with a tiny whine.

"Shh. Hey there," Sherlock whispered as he knelt down, allowing his robe to fall open. "You're all right, little one," he murmured with a rumble of a chuckle. With no worry or regard to Lestrade or John, the detective placed is other hand on top of Lyla's stomach—which was rising and falling with quick little breaths—and then placed his lips to her cheek and forehead. "There now," he murmured against her new skin. "You're all right, love. I'm here." Almost instantly, the baby girl's cries softened to just snuffles. "There's my girl…"

A tender smile dance across Sherlock's lips. Sure to be careful with her fragile body, the detective took ahold of each of Lyla's tiny feet, lifted them, and started to put the onesie on. "Almost done." Eventually, the detective was able to get the onesie on his daughter's tiny body. "John," he chuckled, smiling down at Lyla's tiny body, which was swamped by the baby grow.

"I told you she was a bit small," the doctor laughed.

"Mmm. Oh, come here, love," Sherlock chuckled as he ever-so-carefully lifted Lyla from the chair. With precision unique only to a Holmes, the detective cradled Lyla in the crook of his arm so he would be able to stoke the pad of his thumb over and across his baby girl's cheek.

"Softie," Lestrade murmured under his breath and with a fond smile.

"No," Sherlock answered, though he kept his eyes locked on his daughter's angelic face. "I merely allow myself a few moments to be human every now and again… Though I think I may have to overuse my self-prescribed limit," the detective added as he brushed the back of his knuckles up and down Lyla's cheek. "Greg?"

"Yeah, Sher—hey!"

"What?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"You remembered my name!" Lestrade declared, as if this was some great triumph.

Clearly unimpressed, Sherlock raised a brow. "Yes?"

"It's just you—you never… You've never… Remembered my name?"

"Trivial. Greg?"

The Inspector dropped his gaze. "Yeah?"

"Would you care to hold her?"

"Oh! Oh, sure, sure," Lestrade whispered as he hurried over to his young friend.

"Right, then… Just… Be careful with her. Please."

"Don't worry," Greg chuckled. "I will."

"… All right." Forcing his arms to move, Sherlock slowly and carefully placed his daughter's small form into Greg's waiting arms. The detective noticed the way she squirmed slightly once in the Inspector's grasp and had to stop himself from taking her back. He resolved to just taking a hold of her tiny hand.

"Well hello there, Lyla," Lestrade cooed as he gently bounced the baby girl up and down. "My, she is positively lovely, Sherlock," he added with a smile.

"Mmm. I quite agree." Sherlock smiled as he gazed down at his peaceful daughter. He could feel her little hand moving and stretching against his palm. The detective frowned slightly, however, when he felt his eyelids begin to become exceedingly heavy. "John?" he murmured, giving Lyla's hand a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, mate?"

"I think… I might just take a quick rest," Sherlock mumbled tiredly. The detective was already—though reluctantly—releasing his daughter from his grasp so he could make his way to the couch, which looked exceptionally comfortable.

"Of course, of course. I'd say you've earned it."

"Mmm. Be careful," Sherlock warned Lestrade once again with a wary raise of his eyebrow, before lying on the couch. He found he was almost physically unable to keep his eyes open anymore. And—for once—the detective found he honestly and truly did not mind who saw him as he laid on his side and allowed his eyes to slide shut.

John watched his flat mate with a small smile and a sympathetic gaze. Sherlock was positively exhausted. And, after what he'd witnessed the detective go through, John was proud enough of his friend to feel truly sorry for the man. Sherlock was already completely passed out on the couch, his sharp features slack and youthful-looking as his body finally received the first of many rests it would be needing in the near future.

"Poor git," Lestrade chuckled, with a nod to Sherlock's sleeping form. "Incredible. He actually did it. Him. Sherlock bloody Holmes… Created a life."

"I know… And look how beautifully she turned out."

"Mmm." Sharing a quick smile with John, Greg turned his attention back to the baby sleeping in his arms. "Amazing."

 

 

Sherlock awoke with sharp intake of breath. Noise. A specific sound. Can't place it. Crying?

The detective could feel something pulling in his chest, urging him to awaken, yet he felt as if he wouldn't have enough energy to do to. He ached everywhere, and the pull of exhaustion was so great, he almost obeyed it. But still… There was a ringing in his ears. Crying. Again, something stirred deep in Sherlock's chest. The detective's eyes flew open suddenly as his mind—thrumming to life far slower than usual—finally identified the sound as the weak, tiny cries of his daughter.

"Lyla?" Sherlock murmured, forcing himself to sit up on the couch. He found there was a blanket wrapped around him. Sentiment.

"She's just here, Sherlock," came John's voice.

With his vision blurred slightly, the detective turned is gaze towards the sound of John's voice and could make out his flat mate's form carrying his daughter towards him. Sherlock could vaguely see her tiny arms shaking unhappily back and forth, as her tiny cries—those distinct only to newborns—reached his ears.

Now instantly alert, Sherlock quickly left his spot on the couch, deserting the blanket, and took Lyla from John's arms. "Shh," he whispered. With careful, large hands, the detective set his daughter on his shoulder, so her head was resting just above his collarbone. "What seems to be the trouble, sweetheart?" he whispered with worry lacing his deep voice.

"Just wanted her father, I think," John chuckled. "Also, I'm guessing she's probably getting a tad hungry, so I've started a bottle in the kitchen. It should be ready here in a few moments."

"Mmm," Sherlock merely hummed in response, far too worried about his daughter to bother listening to his flat mate. He barely noticed as the doctor smirked and disappeared into the kitchen. Hoping to calm the upset baby girl in his arms, the detective began to sway back and forth, pressing tender kisses to as much of Lyla's little face as he was able to reach. "There now," he murmured against her skin when she began to calm in his arms.

Thoroughly disliking the fabric barrier between the two of them, Sherlock sat on the couch—not trusting himself to stand and keep a careful hold around Lyla at the same time—and then laid her small body down so she was lying atop his thighs. Almost instantly, the baby girl began to stretch her incredibly small limbs. The sight brought a loving smile to her father's cupid's bow lips.

"Right, then. Here we go." Feeling as if he might scar or somehow hurt her fresh skin, Sherlock carefully unbuttoned each button of her tiny baby grow with the precision of the chemist he was, and then, once all had been popped out of the place, pulled off the rest of the soft, pink fabric.

Now free of the restricting clothing, Lyla continued to stretch her little limbs; the baby girl's arms and hands reached up and stretched, as if reaching for something, and her legs stretched and kicked in a jerky manner, so impossibly adorable that Sherlock couldn't help but laugh and take a hand in each of his own and then place quick, ticklish kisses to Lyla's quickly rising and falling stomach. "My precious little girl," he whispered with a chuckle between kisses. "My Lyla." Sherlock could feel his daughter's tiny feet kicking weakly against his stomach, and the sensation caused a new wave of powerful love to flood his chest. "Oh my little girl," he murmured, pausing to stare down at Lyla's precious face. "My little girl…"

Still seeming rather confused about what was happening around her, Lyla blinked up at her father's face and took a deep breath. The baby girl released it with a soft sound—too adorable for words to describe—and then pulled a tiny hand free of her father's gentle grasp.

Sherlock gasped when he felt Lyla's tiny hand make contact with his cheek. Her tiny fingers clenched and unclenched against his skin, as if trying to grab ahold of his cheek. With a content sigh, Lyla opened her eyes once again, and blinked up at Sherlock.

"Hello," was all the detective could think to say, feeling overwhelmed with the incredible sensations of his daughter's hand against his cheek, her other wrapped in his own, and her incredible eyes staring up at him. "Hello, Lyla."

In response, the little girl turned her head to the side, and began to nuzzle against her father's arm.

"Hello," the detective repeated with a smile.

"...Sherlock."

"Hmm?" The detective forced his gaze away from his baby daughter, and found John was holding a warm bottle out for him. "Oh. Right. Thank you." Giving a shake of his head, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away and placed a single hand atop Lyla's stomach to keep her steady, as he reached out with the other to grab the bottle. "Now how should… Umm… How would I…"

"Oh." Chuckling, John carefully sat himself down on the couch next to his friend. "You'll need to make sure she's situated in a position that will allow her to down the milk easily. It's a bit different than how you would place her if she was breastfeeding." Sherlock looked positively alarmed. "Oh, no, not that you are, I just… Didn't know if you'd… Crossed anything like that in your research…" More utter confusion. John just shook his head. "Nevermind. You're going to need to cradle her in the crook of your arm."

With slow movements, Sherlock carefully moved Lyla so her head was resting on his elbow.

"Good. Now you may want to prop your arm up on the side of the couch at some point, but unless your arm starts to feel tired, that shouldn't be a problem. Okay. Now just… Put the nipple in her mouth, but be sure that no air gets into the front of it; we don't want air getting into her system, all right?"

"Okay." Completely unsure of himself, and feeling somehow inadequate for not being able to directly provide his daughter with proper sustenance, Sherlock made sure Lyla seemed comfortable and then, looping his arm about her body so he was cradling her bottom, hesitantly slipped the nipple into her open mouth.

Almost instantly, the baby girl began sucking at the formula, and her blue eyes rolled backward in contentment as she sucked.

"Ah, there's a good girl," John approved with a small smile.

"Good?" Sherlock asked. His grey eyes were rigorously scanning Lyla for any signs of distress.

"Very. She's downing it, which is what we want. Some babies don't or aren't able to drink the milk—breastfed or otherwise."

"Ah. Well… I suppose she seems very content." Holding the bottle as John had instructed, Sherlock turned his attention back to Lyla and began to gently rock her back and forth. The baby girl's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, and then quickly slid shut once again.

"John," Sherlock whispered in sheer amazement at the little life before him.

"I know, Sherlock… I know."

 

 

 

Greg ended up staying far longer than he originally intended, upon seeing how thoroughly exhausted Sherlock was and realizing how much rest he would be requiring.

Despite the protests of both Greg and his flat mate, the detective refused to release his hold of his daughter, even when it was obvious how desperately he needed sleep. Eventually, Sherlock was lying on the couch, Lyla sleeping soundly against the bare skin of his chest, when he fell asleep, a hand still resting on her back.

Upon seeing that John, too, had passed out in the sitting room, Greg decided he would stay to help the two men, and not leave all the work for their landlady—who was currently cooking some sort of extravagant meal in her flat.

Feeling truly like some sort of doting father or grandfather, the Inspector crept over to Sherlock and, seeing how Lyla was clothed only a nappy, draped her father's robe over the back of her tiny body. The detective stirred slightly at the movement, opening his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible. Greg watched with a warm smile as Sherlock—even his sleep-deprived state, carefully scooted Lyla's body closer to his face, pressed her head against the warm skin of his cheek, and then, after placing a hand to her back and her head, wrapped his robe and a nearby blanket around her tiny, more vulnerable form. With a soft exhale of breath, the detective's eyes slid shut once again, and his breathing soon became deep, and even.

"You are most definitely a big softie," Greg murmured with a smile, before taking a seat once again.

 

 

 

Eventually, John was properly rested to care for both Sherlock and his daughter and—after getting a few more holds of the precious baby girl—Greg left the flat, leaving John to care for a more-than-exhausted detective, and a perfectly content Lyla.

After seeing Greg out, John jogged his way back up the stairs and entered the flat to find the sitting room empty. Frowning in confusion, the doctor silently crept his way to Sherlock's room and pushed open the door. "Sherlock?"

"We're all right," came the detective's deep, yet tired reply. "She's finally fallen asleep."

Eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, John turned his gaze to the bed, to find Lyla—stripped of her nappy—lying with her back facing towards the air, curled up against Sherlock's chest; her little arms and legs were tucked under her incredibly small body. The baby girl's chest rose and fell with each quick breath. Sherlock's hand was lying on her back, and though the detective's eyes were closed, it was clear he was fully awake and functional.

"How are you feeling?" John asked with smile, as he already knew the answer.

"If it is humanely possible to reach a level of upmost calm, joy, and perfection, I have most certainly reached it," Sherlock answered, his soft voice just a rumble.

The doctor merely smiled in response. "Congratulations, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John."

"Mmm."

"No. I mean it."

The doctor turned his gaze back to the bed to find his friend was now gazing at him.

"None of this would have been possible without you. Had you not planted the slightest bit of guilt in my mind… She wouldn't be here… I have you to thank, John. So thank you. Truly."

"Of course, Sherlock," the doctor replied simply, knowing Sherlock would not require a sentimental speech to understand his feelings on the situation. "Enjoy." With a smile, John silently left, closing the door behind him.

With a fond twitch of his lips, Sherlock let his head loll back into place, and closed his eyes once again.

The detective could hear and feel Lyla's quick breaths against his skin, and feel her back rising and falling under his gentle touch. "You're finally here," Sherlock whispered, now completely sure he would not be able to live without the feel of his daughter's small form near. "Something impossibly, wonderfully perfect born from the ashes of something horrendous… My little Lyla." Sherlock watched with a tender gaze as the baby girl shuddered slightly on his chest, and then turned her head so it was facing towards him.

With a loving smile, Sherlock scooted his daughter's tiny body closer to his face and then, after pressing the corner of his lips to her temple, wrapped her small body in the warmth of his arms, skin, and hands. "And would I do it again?" The detective smiled. "In a heartbeat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So I just wanted to say: THANK YOU! A huge thank you to all who have followed, left kudos, and taken the time to leave your positively wonderful reviews! I truly appreciate everyone's support, and I cannot believe you all are so kind! =) In case anyone's worried, there will be more baby fluff in the next chapter, as well as some Mycroft and Molly time! Thanks everyone! I hope you all liked this chapter! =)


	12. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, guys! I am sorry for the wait on this chapter, but life's been crazy lately! =) Also, before this chapter gets started, I would just like to say that at this point I'm thinking I would like to include some light Johnlock into the rest of this fic. (Nothing graphic!) I know that I have gotten several requests to do so, and I think it might be kind of fun for them to have another baby of their own. ;D Anyway guys, I would love some feedback on whether you think I should or not, and I just want to give you all a huge thank you for your awesome, awesome support! Thank you so much, guys! Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Please excuse any errors! Thanks so much!

"How are we doing, hmm?" John chuckled as he took a step into the sitting room, where his flat mate happened to be lying on the floor, baby Lyla wrapped tight in a blanket and cooing against his chest.

"Tired," Sherlock grumbled in reply. "But still well," he added more softly, and with a gentle kiss to the top of his daughter's tiny head. Lyla merely exhaled in response. "Mmm," the detective hummed, a fond smile twitching up and over the corner of his cupid's bow lips.

"Well... I'm going to take a quick rest, then. Will you two be—"

"We'll be fine, John," Sherlock chuckled with an eyeroll. "Thank you. Go get some rest."

The doctor merely smiled in response. "Thanks. Be back in a few." With a grateful smile, John turned, getting ready to head up to his room, when he turned suddenly back, having remembered something. "By the way, you do know how to make a bottle, don't—"

"John!"

"Right, right. Going. Sorry, sorry." John hurried back up the stairs.

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Sherlock turned his attention back to his daughter, whose eyes had opened, and were staring up curiously at him. The detective gasped playfully. "Well hello there, Lyla." With an endearing smile, Sherlock lifted Lyla's body up and began pressing feather-light kisses to her cheeks. The detective pulled away when he heard a series of light, airy, gasping noises. "Lyla, what's—" Sherlock pulled away quickly, having thought he was hurting the baby girl, but was instead met with...

"A smile… A… You're smiling!" Feeling as if he might very well float away, Sherlock stood—as quickly as he was able to—and hugged his baby daughter's small body close. "Oh, you smiled!" A loving grin quickly danced over the detective's lips as he began to gently 'dance' around the room. "A smile… An actual… Smile… Oh, my darling." Stilling, Sherlock sat down once again, having heard more of the quick gasps.

"Mmm," Lyla hummed, a hint of a smile curling up the corner of her little lips.

"A smile… My goodness." Elation trembling through every fibre of his being, Sherlock pressed his lips to the tip of his daughter's nose and took a deep breath. "Mmm. I do so love you, Lyla," he whispered against her smooth, new skin. "I do."

The baby girl merely cooed contently in response.

"Yes… Oh. You're probably getting a bit hungry, aren't you?" Realizing Lyla would be requiring another feeding soon, Sherloc slowly and carefully positioned her blanket-clad body in the crook of his arms and then sauntered into the kitchen, still smiling with elation and robe billowing gracefully behind.

"Right, then. Here we go." The detective slowly made the bottle, as he was rather unused to having so much of his arms occupied.

Bottle completed and with Lyla quickly becoming fussy in his arms, Sherlock hurried back into the sitting room, where he found a pillow for his arm, and then sat down in the leathery comfortableness of his chair. "Shh, I know… You're hungry. Just a moment love," he chuckled. After finding a comfortable position, Sherlock moved Lyla to the crook of his arm and then tenderly placed the bottle to her mouth. Lyla instantly quieted. "Mmm," the baby girl hummed in contentment as her eyelids quickly slid shut.

"There. That's better, isn't it?" Sherlock chuckled lovingly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gazed at his precious daughter. "Mmm." Taking a finger, the detective began to trace his daughter's light, tiny eyebrows. The baby girl's eyes fluttered open at the contact, but then quickly closed once again, clearly content with the contact.

Sherlock watched with raised eyebrows. A warm smile graced his usually-stony features as he watched Lyla's eyebrows travel up and down, as if dreaming. "What are you thinking, hmm?" the detective mused aloud. "Hmm?"

Noticing his hand had dropped a bit, Sherlock quickly raised his wrist once again, to prevent any air from getting into the nipple of the bottle. "There we are, that's better now, isn't it?" Sherlock smiled when he noticed he'd begun to rock back and forth, so as to soothe. "Paternal instincts," he stated, somewhat in wonder. "Didn't ever think I'd have those…"

Suddenly struck with a resounding revelation, the detective stopped his rocking. "Paternal instincts. I'm… I'm a parent," Sherlock stated, in complete awe. "I'm an actual parent. I never… Never imagined I would be a parent…"

With something between a gasp and a chuckle escaping his lips, Sherlock began his rocking once again and, not noticing his robe had slipped open, pressed the curve of his daughter's cheek against his bare skin. "Oh, my Lyla. You've barely begun and yet you've changed so much of me. What are we going to do?" Smiling when he noticed Lyla had fallen asleep, the detective pulled the bottle from the baby girl's mouth and placed her over his shoulder.

Slowly rising, Sherlock began to hum softly into Lyla's ear, while simultaneously swaying back and forth. He didn't even notice when his flat mate crept down the stairs behind him.

John merely watched with a smile as Sherlock continued his humming and rocking. "Good night, Sherlock," the doctor whispered, before escaping back up the stairs.

"Good night, John."

 

 

"Really, Sherlock, I'm all right, I don't need to hold her."

"Molly, you are being quite ridiculous… Now, just support her head and you'll both be just fine."

"Are you sure, because I just don't want to—"

"Molly!"

With worried features, the pathologist turned her brown eyes to Sherlock's steel blue ones, and found, under layers of exhaustion and worry, there was warmth and trust.

Molly gave a nod of her head. "Okay," she whispered.

"Very good. Thank you. Now…" With movements designed to transfer something terribly fragile, Sherlock placed Lyla's tiny form in Molly's arms. The pathologist instantly adjusted her hold to accommodate the baby.

"Oh… Sherlock. She's beautiful."

"Mmm. I quite agree," the detective murmured. Rubbing his eyes, the detective leaned back, and merely listened to the soft cooing and snuffling noises Lyla was making in her sleep. "I told you you'd both be fine," Sherlock added under his breath, rather lacking in his usual vigorous retort.

"Mmm. Well… She's only been in my arms for a few seconds. Much could go wrong as the time continues."

Sherlock merely smiled, and watched as his daughter slept, safe in the arms of the petite pathologist.

 

 

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. The detective vaguely recognized a hand shaking his shoulder.

"We have a guest," came John's voice.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock forced his eyes open, pleased to find there was not much light assaulting them. "Tell him to please go away."

"You don't even know who it is!"

"Of course I do. And, seeing as you're holding me sleeping daughter, do please keep your voice down." Allowing just a few more moments for his eyes to rest, Sherlock merely drawled a response to the confusion he knew was now creasing his friend's face. "My brother is the only guest we would have that would not be talking, seeing as I'm still not sure he's determined how to properly hold a conversation."

"No, little brother. Such particular lack of conversation is reserved only for when I am in your presence."

Sherlock cracked open his eyes to see his brother enter from the kitchen, impeccably dressed as usual, and an umbrella in hand. "Charming," the detective mumbled. Heaving a somewhat exhausted sigh, Sherlock forced himself into a sitting position on the couch. "Can I have her?" he asked softly, nodding to the sleeping baby in his flat mate's arms.

"Of course, of course." With a smile, John hurried over and carefully transferred the baby. "There you are... Good rest?"

"Mmm. Quite. Thank you for... Watching her."

"Well, you've done all the work for the past nine months, so I figure a little help now and again is the least I can offer."

Sherlock, having carefully situated baby Lyla in his arms and pressed a kiss to her small head, returned the smile he realized John was giving him. "Thank you."

"... Ahem," Mycroft cleared his throat, a brow raised.

"Oh." Quickly realizing his brother was glancing curiously between the two of them, Sherlock nodded to John as way of further thanks and then stood, quite regretting it when he was met with a rushing in both his head and his stomach. Holding his daughter close, the detective closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a line while he waited for the uncomfortableness to pass.

"Problem?"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

The government official did not bother concealing his smirk.

"Mmm. Anyway." Opening his eyes once again, Sherlock finally met his brother's gaze. "Nice to see you finally decided to drop by."

"Well, such things are generally considered socially necessary," Mycroft drawled. Twiddling his umbrella, the government official took a step closer to his brother and niece. "So, then... You were correct. A girl... Lyla?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, having turned his gaze back to said baby girl. "She's perfect," the detective whispered, gently swaying back and forth. A small smile quickly danced over his lips as a quiet exhale escaped Lyla's mouth.

"Might I... Ahem. See... Her?" Mycroft asked quietly and uncertainly, as if worried some great harm might befall him for asking such a question.

Sherlock pulled his gaze away from his daughter to stare quizzically into his brother's eyes. "Of course you can see her," he whispered, sounding confused that Mycroft would think he had to ask for such a thing. "Come on over."

Mycroft's brows pulled together. "Right. Okay..." Propping his umbrella against a wall, Mycroft took a hesitant step towards his younger brother, and then another. Once reaching the detective, he hesitantly leaned over, gazing into the face of his slumbering baby niece. "Wow," the government official breathed.

"Yeah," Sherlock sighed, merely nodding in agreement. "'Wow.' Isn't she beautiful?"

"You made that?"

A laugh. "Mmm. Indeed I did... It's rather quite amazing, isn't it?"

"She's a little human life," Mycroft agreed. "And she came from you? You're quite sure?"

Sherlock merely smiled in response.

"M... May I?"

Tearing his gaze away from his baby daughter, Sherlock glanced at his brother. The detective was rather pleased to find Mycroft staring at Lyla. His eyebrows were pulled together into an expression of deep concentration—also as if remembering something, and it was clear he was rather curious about the sleeping baby.

"Of course you can," Sherlock murmured. The detective's lips quirked at the corner when he saw his brother's eyes lighten. "Right, then. Just… Be careful."

"Certainly."

With a small smile, Sherlock placed his lips to Lyla's small forehead and then carefully passed her sleeping form over to his brother's waiting arms.

"Ahh... There we are." Years of past experience rushing back to his limbs and fingers and entire being, Mycroft instantly adjusted his arms to accommodate for his baby niece's body. "There we are," he repeated in a whisper. A single long finger traced a line up and down the curve of Lyla's cheek.

Sherlock watched with an endearing smile. Knowing Lyla was in good hands, the detective silently slipped away into the kitchen in search of food and something with caffeine.

"My little niece," Mycroft whispered, taking a seat in John's armchair.

 

 

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called worriedly from his position in John's chair.

There was a quickly succession of footfalls, and then a panicked, "What? What, what is it?" Sherlock's robed form hurried into the sitting room, moving far quicker than he felt he should have been, worry tensing every bone in his body. "Did something happen, is she all right?" the detective asked, kneeling down in front of his brother and daughter.

"No, no, she's fine, just waking," Mycroft answered, having found he was now rather unsure of what to do.

"Oh..." Sherlock lowered his head and released a breath he'd been holding. "Thank you," he muttered, slowly standing. "For giving me a bloody heart attack."

"Apologies, but... what do I need to do?"

Sherlock huffed a chuckle. "Keep holding her. I'll go make a bottle, seeing as she'll be hungry. Just a moment." After kneading several fingers into his now-pounding temple, the detective disappeared into the kitchen.

"Oh. Well, I..." Patting Lyla's waking form on the bottom, Mycroft moved to the edge of the chair and waited anxiously while the baby girl slowly awakened. "Oh. Well... Hello, there," the government official murmured, nearly laughing aloud when Lyla's brows tugged together in confusion, quite clearly not expecting an unrecognizable voice to come from the person holding her.

"My apologies," Mycroft chuckled, relaxing. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me for the m—" Mycroft froze, the words halting on his tongue when Lyla's blue eyes opened all the way and locked with his own grey ones. "Oh," the government official exhaled, memories of his own little brother's baby form flooding back and seizing him. Memories of blue eyes just like the ones staring up at him. Memories of a little boy who wanted to be a pirate.

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, staring into his niece's deep eyes, identical to those of his younger brother. A smile—one of those rare, genuine ones—graced Mycroft's lips. "Hello, little one," he continued in a whisper. "Hello, there... I'm your uncle, then. I know, it's not much to look at. But... I can assure you: I will spoil you positively rotten." Mycroft felt a fluttering deep in his chest as Lyla's eyes—so similar to those in his saved memories—scanned his face, as if searching for something. "Mmm." Smiling with positive joy, the government official pressed a careful, somewhat hesitant, though loving kiss to Lyla's forehead.

"I knew you'd love her."

Mycroft nearly jumped upon seeing his brother standing next to him.

"Relax. I understand." Bottle in hand, and a smirk on his lips, Sherlock took the seat across from his brother. "Memories... Me?"

"Mmm. Quite. She looks just like you did."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose you were rather influential in my younger life, weren't you?" Sherlock mused aloud, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Well... You were actually fairly interesting as a baby," Mycroft answered, attempting to sound nonchalant. "Then you started talking."

Sherlock just smiled. "Would you like to feed her?"

"Hmm? Oh. No, no, I'm afraid I must be going... Thank you, though." Smiling once again at his baby niece, who was beginning to fuss in his arms, Mycroft carefully passed Lyla back to her father. "There you are."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, enjoying the weight of his daughter in his arms once again. "She's lovely, isn't she?"

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. He couldn't help but feel a swell of something—pride?—swell in his chest as he watched his little brother rock lovingly back and forth while feeding the baby girl quieting in his arms. "Congratulations, Sherlock."

The detective smiled to himself as he heard his brother's footsteps slowly making their way back down the stairs. "I knew he'd love you," Sherlock whispered against the skin of Lyla's cheek, unable to resist pressing another kiss to the skin there. "Just as I do..." Smiling as he watched his daughter's eyelids slide closed, Sherlock continued rocking back and forth, deciding he would never stop being amazed by the human being in his arms. "You, my dear, are going to be spoiled rotten," the detective added with a smile. "As I knew you would."

 

 

"My, she's tired," John chuckled as he carefully bounced Lyla up and down in his arms in Sherlock's room.

"Mmm," the detective hummed in agreement from where he was lying on the bed, limbs splayed about, in an attempt to get some sleep. "Might actually mean some sleep tonight," he mumbled into a nearby pillow.

"I can take care of her tonight," John suggested softly.

"Really?"

John turned his attention from Lyla to his flat mate to find the detective was gazing quizzically yet gratefully at him.

"Yeah, of course. You should... Get some sleep."

"Mmm." Relief flooding his system, Sherlock allowed himself to collapse back onto the bed. "That would be positively wonderful. Thank you, John. But..."

"Yes?"

"Can I... May she stay with me? I've found—despite how tired I may be—I enjoy having her in my presence..."

With a smile, John carefully settled his new, tiny flat mate on top of Sherlock's chest.

"Mmm," the detective sighed, eyes sliding closed. Feeling completely content, Sherlock placed one hand atop of his daughter's tiny back, using the other to take one of her tiny hands in his own and run his thumb over her tiny knuckles. "Can you imagine anything more peaceful?" the detective whispered to no one in particular.

With a smile, John murmured, "Goodnight, you two. I'll be just outside," before silently slipping from the room.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, feeling each and every one of his daughter's breaths, each beat of her quick heart against the thrum of his own. "Goodnight, Lyla. I love you."


	13. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to give a shoutout to all of you guys who have followed, left kudos, and reviewed! You all are wonderful and I will not be able to thank you enough! Also, beware: there is a ridiculous amount of baby Lyla fluff in this chapter! Thanks guys! And sorry for the wait! I hope this fluffy chapter makes up for it just a tad. =)

Sherlock awoke to the sound of someone entering his room. Knowing it was John, and not having the energy nor the want to open his eyes, the detective merely moved a few fingers, satisfied when he felt Lyla's small form against his fingertips. Deciding to act as if he had not awoken, Sherlock kept his eyes closed, relying on his other keen sense to direct him. It soon became apparent that John was checking on Lyla; Sherlock could feel the doctor set a hand atop his own fingers, clearly checking for the rise and fall of each soft breath. Next, Sherlock could feel John lift his daughter just slightly from his grasp, and then set her back down. The detective could feel that her head was now facing the other direction, and her tiny body was more tightly tucked in on itself, so as to conserve warmth.

Feeling as if he should thank the doctor for helping, Sherlock shifted just slightly, allowing his eyes to flutter open. "John," he murmured. The detective could help but smirk, pleased with himself, when he saw his flat mate jump; he'd convinced the doctor he'd been asleep.

"I thought you were bloody sleeping," John somewhat chuckled, releasing a breath.

"Mmm. I was, before you entered." Realizing Lyla was squirming against his chest, Sherlock quickly transferred her small body into the crook of his arm. The detective was still amazed by the fact that her entire body could fit on top of the length of his forearm.

"Yes, well... You hadn't woken up the past times," John grumbled, though his tone was light.

"Past times? How many times has she woken up?"

"Three."

"Three? I... I din't even hear her," Sherlock murmured with a frown.

"Well, she wasn't really crying, per se... Just awake and moving a bit," John explained hurriedly, sensing his flat mate's distress. "She seems to have inherited her father's unusual calm," the doctor added with a smile.

"I"m not sure such things are genetic," Sherlock murmured, now intently examining Lyla for any signs of distress.

John smiled. "Perhaps not."

"No... Here, I'll make a bottle." After pressing a soft kiss to Lyla's forehead, Sherlock slowly slid from the bed, cradling the baby girl carefully in his arms. With a quick smile of appreciation to his flat mate, the detective turned and made to leave, pausing, however, just in the doorway. "John?" he murmured, turning back.

"Hmm?"

"I... Thank you. For everything. I understand now how hard this job would be alone, and I just wanted to thank you for being there."

A small smile spread across the doctor's lips. "Not a problem, Sherlock. I'm happy to help. And it's not much of a burden, anyway; she's lovely."

Sherlock dropped his eyes back down to the baby in his arms. "Yes," he whispered, stroking a finger over the baby girl's eyebrow.

Lyla hummed softly in response.

"She is..." Smiling, Sherlock nodded once more to his flat mate, and then exited the room. "Right, then," he hummed, bouncing the little girl up and down as he entered the kitchen. "Let's see if we can't get you something to eat, hmm? John, would you be able to take her for a moment?"

"Yeah, of course."

Sherlock carefully transferred his baby daughter into his flat mate's arms, and then turned, starting a bottle.

Smiling fondly at the resting baby in his arms, John began to gently sway back and forth. "Sherlock," he murmured suddenly.

Bottle now finished and in hand, the detective turned, brows tugged together in confusion. "Yes?"

"What? Oh. Nothing, she's just... I know I've said it, but you've made something beautiful, Sherlock... And I hope you're very proud of yourself," the doctor murmured.

A smile briefly danced over Sherlock's lips. "Thank you," he whispered, stepping forward to gaze lovingly at Lyla's resting form.

"Yeah," John agreed. The doctor allowed his gaze to linger on his flat mate, having found Sherlock's entire form seemed to soften when in the presence of his daughter...

"Oh, come here now, love." Bottle in hand, Sherlock ever-so-gently took Lyla from John's arms, effectively waking the baby girl.

"Mmm-bah," the tiny girl hummed, looking confused as she eventually focused her blue eyes on her father's form.

"Why hello there, love," Sherlock rumbled, deep baritone voice thrumming deep in his chest.

Quickly settling into the familiar tones and hold of her father, Lyla relaxed, blinking slowly up at the detective.

Sherlock smiled lovingly when the baby girl attempted to make a grab for him, though her hand was wobbly, which the detective secretly found to be rather adorable anyway. "Mmmmmm-bah!" Sherlock exclaimed softly. Ever-changing eyes gleaming with joy, the detective leaned down and pressed a playful kiss to the hand Lyla was attempting to touch him with. "Got you…"

Upon feeling her father's lips touch her hand, the baby girl exhaled breathily, creating a tiny sound, and then closed her eyes, as if the movement had startled her, though her hand was still outstretched.

"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled, apologizing with a kiss to the baby's cheek.

Now looking quite confused, Lyla opened her eyes once again, and—after several seconds of gazing around—locked eyes with Sherlock, though the moment was rather fleeting, as doing such a thing was apparently exhausting; now frowning in the way newborn's often will, Lyla closed her eyes and curled inward on herself.

"Exhausted you, have I? Hmm. We should try switching parts." With a fond smile, Sherlock used feather-light touches to turn his daughter into the proper feeding position, and then settled himself on the couch.

"I'm going to run out to get some food," John said suddenly, entering from the kitchen. "Would you like me to get you any take away?"

"Stomach's actually been a bit upset the past few hours, so I think I'll just wait," Sherlock murmured, watching intently as Lyla began to drink the formula, smiling when her eyelids began to flutter and droop. "Go on… It's all right; you can sleep," the detective urged fondly, a small smile on his lips.

"Mmm. She's a fighter… Not unlike someone I know," John chuckled with a fond eye roll.

"Mmm." When the baby girl still appeared to continue to fight sleep, Sherlock stood and began to gently sway back and forth, incredible blue eyes watching his daughter intently.

"So that's a no for the takeaway, then?"

"Yes, unfortunately. Thank you, though."

Knowing his flat mate was far more focused on his daughter than on him, John smiled, and descending the stairs, deciding he would grab something that could be easily refrigerated, anyway.

Sherlock turned towards the stairway. "Thank you, John," he murmured, knowing full well the doctor wouldn't hear it, but deciding to say it anyway. Turning back to Lyla, Sherlock smiled warmly when he saw the baby girl had finally fallen asleep, her incredibly tiny hand curled around his thumb while she drank from the bottle. "There you are, little one."

Seating himself once again, Sherlock managed to support his baby girl and hold the bottle with one arm. His other hand now free, and with precision of only a Holmes, the detective ever-so-gently took one of Lyla's tiny legs, and tucked it closer to her body, into a more comfortable position. "There now, that's better isn't it?" he murmured absently, staring into his daughter's impossibly sweet features.

"M-ah." Grip tightening around her father's finger, Lyla continued to suck contently at the formula, sound asleep.

A smile graced Sherlock's lips. "There's my girl." Once the detective noticed Lyla had finished the bottle, he carefully pulled it from her mouth and, after burping her, decided they had not gotten nearly enough skin-to-skin for the day. "Right, then," the detective murmured, managing to pull off his shirt without waking Lyla. Now clothed in just pajama bottoms, the detective settled himself so he was lying on his back on the couch, quite pleased with himself when Lyla still did not awaken.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his daughter's impossibly sweet sleeping form, currently resting on his stomach. "Oh, come here now, love. We can't have you down there. Also," the detective added as he gently began to undress the baby girl, "there's not much point in skin-to-skin contact, if there's no skin to have contact with, now is there?" Having released Lyla from her baby grow and nappy, Sherlock attempted to move the baby girl closer to his chest without waking her, but to no avail.

Waking with a gasp, Lyla began to shudder unhappily atop her father's chest, stretching and shaking her impossibly tiny limbs.

"Oh. Sorry, Lyla." Chuckling sadly when Lyla began to cry against him, Sherlock hastily pulled the baby girl close and began to press soft kisses to her forehead and cheeks. "You're all right, love. I promise, I've got you." Realizing she was probably rather cold, the detective wrapped both of his large hands around her small body, and pulled a blanket from the back of the couch. Draping it over the both of them, Sherlock relaxed when the baby girl settled against him. The detective could feel her tiny limbs rubbing against the skin of his chest while she shifted and stretched.

"You know," Sherlock murmured, stroking several fingers over his daughter's tiny head, "I feel I should warn you. And possibly apologize," he added with a chuckle. "For the crazy life you've been born into, that is. You will be utterly spoiled by my brother, possibly dumbed down by Lestrade, though loved just the same... Nutured by Molly and Mrs. Hudson, both... Loved and adored by John. Hmm." A smile. "And I would certainly hope you feel just as loved by me. I hope you feel you can trust me. Hmm..." Realizing he'd been rambling, Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head and turned his steel-colored eyes to Lyla. The detective chuckled deeply when he noticed the way the baby girl's eyes fluttered closed with each gentle stroke of his fingers, but always fluttered open again, as if wanting to hear the detective's voice. "You are quite the fighter, aren't you?" he murmured, a smile twitching over his lips. "What are you thinking, hmm?" the detective asked, voice rumbling deep in his chest.

As if feeling the vibration, Lyla shuddered atop Sherlock's chest, and closed her eyes, a yawn escaping her lips.

Sherlock felt a flutter deep in his chest upon hearing the sound that accompanied his daughter's yawn. With a joyful laugh, the detective placed his lips to Lyla's temple. "Beautiful," he murmured tenderly.

"Mmm." Cooing contently, Lyla took a single wobbly hand and placed it atop Sherlock's jaw, moving and scraping her tiny fingers over the skin there.

"Oh, thank you, love," the detective chuckled in a playful tone. "It's lovely to see you, too."

Cooing with her mouth open, Lyla stretched her other hand out, clearly attempting to touch her father's face with that hand, as well. "Mm-bah," she hummed when her hand just barely fell short of the detective's jaw.

"Not quite." Helping, Sherlock took Lyla's farthest hand in his own, titled his head to the side, and gently guided his daughter's hand to his cheek. "There. Better?"

"Mmm-ah," Lyla hummed with a tiny voice, staring intently at where her fingers were resting against her father's skin.

"Ah. I see," Sherlock murmured. "I suppose my face is rather interesting, isn't it?" Chuckling to himself, the detective rolled his eyes and then turned them once again to the baby resting atop his chest. "Well... You just don't seem to be tiring out, do you? Hmm..." Returning to stroking his fingers over his Lyla's tiny head, Sherlock began to worry his bottom lip. "I suppose we don't necessarily have to be lying down for a skin contact session. You do seem to rather enjoy being held more, don't you? Right, then. That's what we'll do."

Sherlock carefully slid off the couch, taking the blanket with him. "Let's try this then, hmm?" Pausing and closing his eyes when his stomach seemed to do summersaults, the detective slowly released a breath, and then delicately wrapped the blanket around his daughter's tiny body, tucking the fabric under her bottom, but leaving it so her entire front was pressed close to the warmth of his chest.

Quite clearly far more content with this situation, Lyla released a tiny sigh. Sherlock could feel each of her impossibly tiny fingers curling against his skin as she settled against the planes of his pale chest; could feel each quick exhale of her warmth breath. "There we are... There we are..." Voice just barely a whisper, the detective began to gently sway back and forth as he reached a hand under the blanket draped around the two of them so he could rub circles across his daughter's back, though the baby girl was so tiny, his circles were more or less just up and down and back and forth. "You are so tiny... I know, I know, I've said it before, but... I'm not quite sure I'll ever be able to wrap my head around it. I never knew human beings came so small..."

A light exhale of breath. A yawn. "Mmm."

"Finally tiring, are we?" Sherlock glanced down, smiling when he saw Lyla had fallen asleep, mouthing hanging open just a tad. "Oh, Lyla. I do love you, but... finally."

 

 

 

Having gotten Sherlock's favorite takeaway, John returned to find the flat was quiet. After placing the food in the kitchen, the doctor crept into the sitting room, and his gaze softened and a smile graced his lips at the scene in front of him. With an eyeroll, John managed to find a blanket, and then crept back into the sitting room. "Oh, Sherlock," he murmured, draping the blanket over the detective's form, where he had fallen asleep on the floor, Lyla lying next to him wrapped tightly in a blanket, lying on several, with Sherlock's hand wrapped protectively around her tiny body. John couldn't help but notice the way his flat mate's lean form was curled around his daughter, forming a protective barrier around her small, sleeping form. "Oh, Sherlock," the doctor repeated with a fond smile.

Suddenly, John realized his hand was resting atop his flat mate's arm, rising and falling with each of the detective's soft breaths. "Oh." The doctor quickly removed his hand, though it seemed as if his fingertips just barely lingered.

Not wanting to just leave the two of them both asleep and alone, John hurried back into the kitchen, grabbed some food, and then settled himself in his chair, plate in hand.

John watched Lyla and Sherlock while he slowly ate, rather amazed at the likeness between father and daughter. When the baby girl cried out suddenly, and stretched her tiny limbs, John quickly deserted his food and crouched down next to his little flat mate. "Hold on just a minute, Lyla. We'll get you sorted out." Knowing Sherlock was not going to wake, as the detective had been quite exhausted as of late, John carefully moved Lyla and settled her next to Sherlock's chest. "There you are, little one. That's better, isn't it?" The doctor removed his hand. Instantly, Lyla began to fuss again. "Oh."

Brows traveling together, John set his hand once again atop the baby girl's back. She instantly quieted. "Oh. Hmm." A small smile tugged at the corner's of the doctor's lips. "Okay, then." Knowing if he removed his hand again or took her away from the warmth of her father, Lyla would begin to fuss, John resolved that he would just have to stay with the two of them. "Okay... All right," the doctor murmured as he lowered himself to the ground, parallel to his flat mate. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," he exclaimed, "how do you sleep on this floor so often?"

"I find it rather comfortable."

John quite literally jumped upon seeing the detective's piercing blue eyes boring into his own.

"Just once could you be bloody human?" John hissed in a whisper, feeling a strange flutter in his chest when the detective's lips quirked at the corners.

"Mmm." A raised brow. "Probably not."

"Aren't you tired?"

"Incredibly. But I'm not about to sleep when there's not somebody else here to monitor Lyla." The detective closed his eyes once again. "I was thinking."

"Ah. Okay. Duly noted for future reference."

A chuckle. "She likes you."

"Well I should hope so. I helped bring her into the world, surely that constitutes I get something, right?" Smiling, the doctor gazed fondly at the sleeping baby.

"Mmm. I quite agree. Now, then. Seeing as you're home, and are more than capable of watching her, would you mind too terribly if I pop off for a quick nap?"

"No, no, not at all. Please."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank God." Carefully gathering Lyla into his arms, Sherlock stood, cuddling her close for a few moments. After pressing a delicate kiss to her cheek, the detective passed his baby daughter into his flat mate's waiting arms. "Thank you, John."

"Of course, Sherlock."

 

 

 

Descending the stairs a few days later with a yawn, John crossed past the entryway to the sitting room and into the kitchen. Realizing he'd not woken up once throughout the night, the doctor quickly turned on the coffee machine and then padded towards his flat mate's room. He stopped, however, upon hearing the detective's distinct baritone voice. Turning, the doctor crept into the kitchen, wishing to eavesdrop on what his flat mate was saying.

"Shush, John. We're experimenting."

The doctor jumped. "Way to scare the bloody daylights out of me." Rounding the corner, John chuckled to himself—somewhat in disbelief—when he found Sherlock lying on his stomach on the floor, a hand carefully and gently holding Lyla in place where she was lying just in front of him on a well-padded bed of sheets and blankets. Surrounding the two of them was Sherlock's laptop, a wide assortment of colored pens, ridiculous amounts of paper, and practically all the baby clothes they had bought or received. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. What are you doing?" John chuckled, taking a step into the room.

"I told you. Experimenting." Changing his attention, Sherlock turned his gaze to Lyla and a smile instantly graced his lips. "I said he was rather oblivious," the detective murmured to the baby girl with a fond quirk of his lips. Sherlock quickly grabbed a pen when Lyla cooed happily in response, scribbling something down on a nearby paper.

"Are you seriously recording that?" John asked in disbelief. "You know she hasn't a clue what you're saying?"

"I'm not recording her response to what I say, but rather how I say it." Heaving a sigh that John knew meant he was pleased with his findings, Sherlock turned a sly smile to his friend. "See?"

"And the clothes?"

"Oh, yes. Testing her response to each outfit to see which she seems most comfortable and uncomfortable in." The detective gestured to his left, where John noticed a small pile of clothes. "Those," Sherlock emphasized with a flick of his finger, "are the giveaway pile."

"Sherlock," John chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head, "she's a baby. She doesn't—"

"Shush." With a dismissive wave of his fingers, Sherlock hastily returned to Lyla, who was stretching her arms and legs in that rather shaky way newborns do.

"Right. Sorry... So, then." Stepping around the many clothes strewn about the floor, John managed to get to his chair, where he sat. "Findings?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes." Not even bothering to meet his friend's gaze, Sherlock kept his icy-blue eyes on his daughter, who was currently turning her head back and forth, incidentally touching her curled fingers with each turn, and cooing contently to herself. "I've discovered that, despite the fact that she does seem content in some clothes, she seems to be happiest when clothed in just a nappy. I've not yet tested happiness without a nappy. In terms of vocals, she barely responds to what the internet calls... Um..." The detective turned his gaze to his laptop and moved the pad of his thumb over the trackpad. "Oh. 'Baby talk.' However, when such a thing is used in addition to playful gestures, the response is as follows." Demonstrating, Sherlock turned his attention to Lyla, smiled rather playfully, and began to tickle her stomach with his fingertips, cooing playfully against her skin."

Almost immediately, Lyla broke into a series of breathy gasps, and the corners of her lips curled upwards, forming a small, almost-smile.

Also now smiling himself, Sherlock pulled back, giving his daughter's stomach one last tickle. "See?"

The doctor chuckled. "Yeah, that's… That's actually rather interesting," he mused with raised brows.

"Isn't it? It's quite amazing that's she's seems to be smiling. Although, the internet would also suggest such a thing is not yet 'social,' whatever that means... Now. If you'll excuse us, we still have a few more tests to run, don't we, love? Unless, of course, you'd like to help us…"

"Oh. Sure, sure, I would love to."

"Excellent. You can go make her a bottle."

Mouth hanging open a tad, John shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Brilliant." The doctor stomped away into the kitchen, mumbling quietly to himself.

Smirking, Sherlock turned his attention back to Lyla, who was still smiling and clenching and unclenching her hands in the air in front of her, and then gathered her carefully into his arms. "Don't worry," he whispered playfully, "we'll let him help. I just thought it best to get you started early on the many, many ways to mess with John."

Breathing having returned to normal, Lyla settled into her father's hold.

"Here." A few more stomps. "Here's your bloody bottle."

"Ah. Excellent. Thank you, John." A smirk.

"Oh, shut up."

"Very well. I was only going to ask you if you'd care to test that pile of clothes over there on Lyla for me."

"… You're very frustrating, I hope you know that," John sighed with an exasperated chuckle.

"I do."

 

 

 

"Oh, my," Sherlock whispered in elation as he glanced at himself in the mirror, doing up the last button. "It fits... Ha! It... It fits! John! John, come here!"

"What, what is it?" the doctor asked, hurrying into his flat mate's room. "What, is something wrong? Oh."

A grin quickly danced over Sherlock's lips as he turned to the doctor, dressed for the first time in months in his favorite suit. "It fits! It finally fits," the detective gasped, running a hand over the silky fabric of the suit.

Not quite sure what to do with himself, Sherlock hurried over to John—who was holding Lyla—and ever-so-gently scooped the little baby girl out of his flat mate's arms. "Yes!" he gasped quietly, smiling at her precious form. "Oh, I do love you so much Lyla, and I wouldn't trade you for anything, but I cannot possibly put into words how glad I am that I can finally wear my suits again!"

Laughing aloud when the baby girl merely blinked confusedly up at him, Sherlock smiled, gaze softening when Lyla snuggled into his warm hold. "There now, love... Sorry, I'm just a bit excited, that's all," the detective murmured, lowering his forehead until it touched his daughter's. Having determined he would never tire of Lyla's new baby smell, Sherlock inhaled, chuckling when the baby girl cooed under his breath. "Hello..."

"Well, I'm very glad your suits fit again," John chuckled, watching the scene with a smile.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes. Yes! Isn't it wonderful?" Now grinning once again, Sherlock raised his head. "Now, then! Seeing as this fits again, tomorrow we are going out to celebrate!"

"Oh, great! Where to?"

"Where else? Scotland Yard, of course. I'm itching to get a new case!"

The smile that had previously been on John's lips quickly faded. "Oh. Right. Of course."

"Besides..." Smiling at his daughter's precious form, Sherlock began to gently sway back and forth. "It's about time Lyla got a glimpse of the world, hmm?" The detective turned his gaze to his flat mate's, frowning when he saw the look on the doctor's face. "What?"

"Bloody hell!"

 

 

 

"And… Here we go," Sherlock whispered as he slowly lowered Lyla's sleeping form into the cot, positioned as close to his bed as was humanly possible. (Per the insistence of the detective, of course.)

"Nicely done," John whispered in approval. "You've gotten quite good at getting her to fall asleep."

"She likes swaying," Sherlock merely answered in response, ever-changing eyes gazing intently through the dark at his sleeping baby daughter. "But," he added with a sigh, "she's only a few days old, so I can only hope such a discovery will continue..."

The doctor merely smiled. "I'm off to bed... Goodnight, Sherlock." John paused when the detective's eyes flicked up to meet his own.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock murmured, straightening and releasing the sides of the cot from his slender fingers. "I'll take care of her tonight. Don't worry about getting up." A kind twitch of his lips.

"Oh. Well, thank you. Sure?"

"Mmm. Quite." The detective's gaze dropped to his slumbering daughter, positioned on her back, with her tiny limbs splayed about in a positively adorable fashion.

"All right. If you're sure. Thank you." With a grateful nod of his head, John leaned over the top of the cot and pressed his lips to Lyla's forehead. "Goodnight," he chuckled, padding from the room. "Sleep well... Both of you."

"Mmm," Sherlock merely murmured in response, gazing at his flat mate's retreating form.

Feeling the all-too-familiar pull of exhaustion, Sherlock crawled into his bed and under the covers, finding the consuming cool of the sheets incredibly soothing. A quick smile twitched over the detective's lips when he heard Lyla babble contently in her sleep, finding the tiny sounds reassuring. "Goodnight, love," the detective murmured, closing his eyes.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock's eyes quickly flew open upon hearing his daughter's tiny cries coming from her cot. Worried that something may be wrong, the detective quickly crawled out of bed and—not quite awake—pulled his baby daughter from the restraints of the cot. "Shh. It's all right, Lyla. I'm here, sweetheart," the detective murmured, cradling the baby girl in his arms.

Clearly not soothed, Lyla continued crying, though her tiny, days-old lungs barely produced much sound.

After thoroughly examining his daughter for any signs of physical distress, Sherlock relaxed, determining the baby girl was not hurt. "Right, then. Is your nappy soiled?" he murmured, gently setting Lyla down on his bed. After quickly undoing her baby grow with deft, slender fingers, the detective pulled the fabric away from his daughter's flailing form, saddening with each tiny cry. After checking Lyla's nappy and finding it to be clean, Sherlock gathered the baby girl back into his arms. "Lyla," he murmured worriedly, gently rocking her back and forth. "What's wrong? I don't know what's wrong. Maybe you're hungry."

Cuddling Lyla close to his chest, Sherlock hurried into the kitchen, stroking several fingers over his daughter's tiny skull, and pulled a bottle from the fridge. While waiting for it to heat up, the detective leaned against the counter and transferred Lyla to the crook of his arm. "You're all right, Lyla," he murmured, tone impossibly tender. "I've got you… I wish you could tell me what's wrong."

Upon hearing the deep tone's of her father's voice, Lyla stopped the flailing of her limbs and her cries subsided to rather sad gasps. Small face scrunching as she frowned, the baby girl turned a teary-eyed gaze to Sherlock's.

"Ah. Hello, there," the detective breathed in relief. He watched lovingly as his daughter's blue eyes stared sadly into his own. "You had me worried, Lyla." With a small smile, Sherlock pressed his lips to the baby's girl's temple, nearly jumping when she began to cry once again. "Oh, Lyla." Eyes saddening as Lyla's face once again scrunched together while she cried, and her tiny limbs began to shake and flail about, Sherlock grabbed the bottle from its heater and padded back into his room.

"Let's try some food, then, hmm?" Seating himself in the rocking chair that had only recently been added to his room, Sherlock positioned Lyla the way John had informed him to and attempted to place the nipple of the bottle in his daughter's mouth. The detective frowned when the baby girl quite refused to drink the formula.

"No? Well, I… I'm not quite…" The detective placed the bottle on the floor, and—holding Lyla close—grabbed a blanket from her cot. "Perhaps you're just a bit restless, hmm?" Vaguely remembering John had told him that babies 'just cry,' Sherlock situated the two of them in the rocking chair once again, deciding he would just wait out the bout of tears and attempt to soothe in any way he could. Wanting to make sure Lyla was warm, the detective undid the robe he didn't remember falling asleep in, and set the baby girl against his chest. After wrapping the loose folds of his silky robe around the two of them, he tucked and wrapped the warm blanket around Lyla's tiny body.

"There now, love… Shh… It's quite all right," Sherlock murmured with impossible tenderness, rocking the two of them back and forth.

Snuffling and whining sadly against her father's chest, Lyla continued to squirm unhappily, turning her head back and forth as best she could.

"Now, hold on just a moment." Smiling sadly, Sherlock placed his large hand to the back of Lyla's head, and kept her gently situated in one position.

Cries subsiding once again, Lyla heaved a few tiny, albeit deep breaths. Sherlock could feel a few tears slide free from his daughter's eyes, wetting his chest. "Oh, my little one."

Gazing confusedly around, the baby girl eventually managed to turn her head in just a way so she could see her father.

"Hello," the detective murmured, blinking slowly. "Hello there, Lyla…" Sherlock was now sure some part of his senses had been heightened by this whole endeavor, as he could feel each of his daughter's tiny limbs stop their frantic movements while the baby girl settled against him, and could feel as each of her toes curled and uncurled, clearly trying to determine if she really was done with her crying.

Having quite obviously exhausted herself with all of the tears and frantic movements, Lyla seemed to heave a sigh, and—as if grateful for the calm, closed her eyes and rested all of her weight against her father's capable chest.

The detective laughed, in spite of himself. "I wonder where you get your dramatic flare from?" he chuckled in relief. "I suppose you do seem to be taking after me, don't you?" Tilting his head to the other side, Sherlock gazed at his daughter, raising fond eyebrows when her eyes fluttered open and she stared, quite clearly exhausted, at the fingers he just realized were resting atop her own little hand.

Interested in his daughter's reaction, the detective lifted his index finger just slightly and then lowered it back down, pleased when his daughter followed the movement with tired eyes. "An observer," he mused. "Interesting." Sherlock suddenly became aware that Lyla was yawning against his chest, her tiny limbs shaking a bit with the force of the yawn. "Oh, my little one. Let's see if we can't help that, hmm?" The detective resumed his rocking, picking a slow, gently rhythm.

Soothed by her father's close form and warm hand on her own, Lyla closed her eyes, relaxing. Only a few snuffles now and again could be heard.

"I must say," Sherlock murmured as he rocked, "I never imagined I'd say this, let alone find something I thought was this, but you are rather quite adorable, Lyla," the detective explained, beginning to hum in time with the pace of his rocking, a new melody that had been forming and blossoming in his mind. Sherlock soon realized Lyla's breathing had become even and steady. "Hmm," he hummed with a smile. "You always did like music. Interesting." The detective made a mental note to add this new discovery to his daughter's steadily-growing file.

Soon, however, the pull of sleep became too strong to ignore and, too exhausted to even move himself from his rather comfortable spot on the chair, Sherlock made sure Lyla was sleeping in a position where she would be able to breathe, even if she moved, tucked the blanket around her incredibly small form again, and leaned his head back, still amazed at how peaceful he felt, having his baby daughter slumbering soundly in his arms... Still amazed he had produced such a thing, and was able to provide the same peace he felt for such a tiny, new human being.

"Mmm." Exhaling, Sherlock welcomed the sounds Lyla was making in her sleep, and soon followed suit; the small baby girl's entire little body rose and fell with each of her father's steady breaths.

Lyla's eyes briefly fluttered open when each of Sherlock's slender fingers subconsciously curled around her own tiny hand, effectively trapping it in a graceful case, and then fell shut once again. Both slept soundly that night.


	14. First Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! I just wanted to give you guys a huge shoutout and thanks! I cannot express my thanks to everyone who has commented, left kudos, followed, and read. So, thanks, guys! Also, apologies for the length of this chapter; I just started writing and got a tad bit carried away. =) Hope you guys enjoy! Thanks so much everyone!

"Sherlock, love, I am informing you to go to bed and get some sleep this very instant," Mrs. Hudson scolded with a raised brow and a finger pointed towards a bedroom.

Said detective, who currently had his hand curled around a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, where he was sat with Lyla in his arms, and John in a seat next to him, rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson," he sighed, taking a sip of the hot beverage, "for the last time, I am not tired. I got plenty of sleep last night."

A scoff.

"Shut up, John."

"Sherlock." Dropping her hand, Mrs. Hudson gazed sadly at the detective. "... Are you sure, dear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Believe me, when I require sleep, I shall be sure to get some. Besides. We are headed to Scotland Yard today, so I can't get any sleep right now. As soon as we're done with breakfast, we're headed over."

"Well... If you're sure."

Sherlock smiled reassuringly. "Quite."

"Right, well... I'll bring up some food for you two."

Knowing it wouldn't occur to his flat mate to do so, John thanked their landlady. "Ta, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh. You're very welcome, darling." The landlady's steps could be heard quickly making their way down the stairs.

"Liar," John mumbled, gazing smugly at the newspaper in his hands.

"I am not a liar," Sherlock retorted. With a scowl towards his flat mate, the detective carefully finished feeding Lyla, who was fast asleep, and then settled her small form against his chest.

"You are. Look at you, Sherlock. You're positively exhausted."

"No more than you."

"Maybe, but I'll admit to such things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I'm no more exhausted than I usually am. And even if I was, having a baby rather constitutes such things. Besides," the detective added, making his point by pressing the corner of his lips to Lyla's temple, "such a thing deserves such an exertion of energy, something I'm quite happy to give."

"Right, then. Here we are boys," Mrs. Hudson crooned, sweeping back into the kitchen with a plate of biscuits. "Now, you boys be careful with her today, you understand?" she scolded playfully, gaze traveling to the sleeping baby girl.

"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Hudson," John chuckled, setting his newspaper down. "She'll be more than perfectly safe in the hands of Sherlock. I doubt he'll even let anyone there hold her," the doctor teased.

Sherlock merely squinted at his flat mate. "I don't mind if Lestrade holds her. But Donovan is not even allowed to be on the same floor," the detective muttered, placing another several kisses to his daughter's head.

"... Fair enough," the doctor agreed with a nod, also not very fond of the sergeant.

"Exactly."

 

 

 

"No. No, absolutely not," Sherlock stated firmly, glaring at the object John had thrust towards him. "We are not bringing a pram."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not! The car seat, I can understand; safety precautions for the cab. But a pram is completely illogical, seeing as if she's not being held by Lestrade or you, I will be holding her. Besides, I'm not going to push that around."

John rolled his eyes and released a huff of breath. "Fine... Must you always be so difficult?" he muttered with a glare in his flat mate's direction.

Sherlock smirked. "Probably. Now, then! Will you watch her while I get dressed?" The detective gestured to the sitting room, where Lyla was sound asleep in her portable cot.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah, yeah, of course."

"Wonderful. Thank you, John." Practically giddy at the prospect of having a new case on his hands, Sherlock gave his flat mate a grateful smile and then gracefully glided away into his bedroom, robe billowing just as gracefully behind him.

"Stubborn sod," John chuckled tiredly, kneading several fingers into his temple. "Your father is a piece of work, he is," the doctor continued, taking a step towards Lyla's cot and leaning over so as to gaze down at the baby girl. A warm smile danced over the doctor's lips as he gazed at Lyla's sleeping form, eyes crinkling at the corners as they travelled to her little limbs, visibly splayed about under the blanket draped over her. "You are precious, aren't you?" A fond smile. "Let's hope you've not inherited your father's stubbornness, though."

Knowing his friend would take a few more minutes to get dressed, John found the nappy bag and double-checked that they had everything. Once satisfied, the doctor sat on the couch and grabbed a book he'd discarded a few days before, having not found any time to finish it. Checking on slumbering Lyla every few moments, John merely sat and read his book while he waited for his flat mate to finish dressing.

"Right, then. Ready?" soon came Sherlock's deep voice.

John turned to find his flat mate, now fully dressed in his favorite suit, and doing up the last button. The smile on his cupid's bow lips was evident. "Feel nice?" John chuckled with a smirk, setting down his book.

"Dear Lord, yes," Sherlock sighed. The detective's eyes slid closed as he ran a slender hand over the front of the silky fabric, reveling in the feel of his once-again flat abdomen. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the twinge in his chest, somehow missing the swell of his belly.

"What?" John asked, having seen the movement of his flat mate's lips.

"Hmm? Oh. Nothing." Hand slipping from the fabric of his suit, Sherlock quickly grabbed his Belstaff from the back of the door behind him and draped it over his lean form. "Now, then… Come here, my love," the detective murmured with a tender smile as he bent into the cot, gently lifting his daughter from the portable bed. "Mmm," he hummed, pressing the curve of his cheekbone to her temple. "Must we put her in the seat?" Sherlock asked with a chuckle. The detective smiled as Lyla stretched her limbs against him, yawning in her sleep.

"Mmm. Unfortunately. But we can carry her down." Smiling fondly at his two flat mates, John picked up the baby seat and began to make his way down the stairs.

Having heard his flat mate's footsteps, Sherlock quickly grabbed a thin baby blanket out of his daughter's portable crib, and delicately draped it over her equally-delicate body. "Coming, John." With gentle treads, and daughter safely in his arms, the detective grabbed his scarf and began to descend the stairs.

"You know," John called behind him with a smirk, "it's not too late to grab the pra—"

"John!" Sherlock groaned loudly.

"Alright!" The doctor threw his hands up in surrender. "Just thought I'd suggest it," he chuckled.

"Insufferable." Pressing Lyla close and having reached the bottommost landing, Sherlock shot John a dithering look.

"Probably. Right, then. Ready?" John asked, placing a hand atop of the doorknob.

"Oh God, yes," Sherlock breathed. "We're ready, aren't we?" he added, stroking the pad of his thumb across Lyla's cheek.

"Excellent." Baby seat in hand, John flicked his wrist just slightly, opening the door.

Sherlock's lips quirked at the corners upon seeing the outside; though it had only been a few days, the detective felt as if it had been weeks since he'd set foot outside. "Let's go." Brushing past his flat mate, Sherlock hurried outside, and draped his scarf around his neck, effectively freeing his other hand, so as to get a better hold of his daughter's slumbering form.

Ignoring his friend's rudeness, John followed the detective out and managed to flag down a cab. The doctor opened the door and made to enter.

"Ah. Thank you, John." Tucking Lyla close, Sherlock ducked into the taxi.

"Unbelievable," John muttered, literally and figuratively holding his tongue to prevent any profanities from spilling forth. "Please, go ahead, Sherlock," he exclaimed, crawling into the cab.

"I did, John," Sherlock countered confusedly. "Do please stop stating the obvious. St. Barts, please. Car seat."

"What?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "The car seat please, John. We need to put Lyla in.

"Got it. No need to be rude." Raising a brow at his flat mate, John pulled out the nappy bag they'd tucked into the car seat, and then set it between the two of them. "All set."

"Right, then. Come along now, love." After shifting slightly, Sherlock cradled Lyla's head in the palm of his hand and tenderly placed the tiny girl in the seat.

Once removed from her father's warm hold, Lyla stretched her tiny arms and legs, as if searching for the detective.

"I know, little one... I know," Sherlock murmured, taking each of the baby girl's hands in his own. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"We packed a blanket, correct?"

Nodding, the doctor rooted through the nappy bag for a few moments before pulling out a small blanket. He handed it to his flat mate.

"Ah. Wonderful." Whispering soft shushes, Sherlock took a single hand and gathered both of his daughter's little ones into his own. The detective smiled sadly upon hearing her tiny whines and cries. "I know, love. Just a moment." Pressing down just a bit on her chest, Sherlock flattened the hand holding Lyla's own tiny ones, smiling when she calmed, cries reducing to tired sniffles. The detective barely even noticed he had started to hum.

Not bothering to remove his hand, Sherlock draped the blanket over Lyla's calming form, knowing this one would provide her with more warmth, and began to rock the car seat back and forth. The detective felt a satisfied flutter in his chest when Lyla's eyes fluttered closed and she fell asleep once again with an airy sigh.

Hand remaining in the car seat, Sherlock sat back, releasing a sigh. The detective turned to his flat mate to find John was smiling—practically grinning—at him. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," the doctor breathed, still smiling.

"What, John?

"I just... didn't even know there was this side to you."

"What side?" Sherlock asked, as if offended. "There's no side, I'm completely normal."

"This soft side," John laughed with a general gesture towards his flat mate's form. "You actually do have a human side. It's just strange to see it. You're usually very... different."

Sherlock looked as if he had suffered an extremely offensive blow to his intelligence. Any retort he had, however, was cut off by John.

"There's no need to get so offended," the doctor laughed with an apologetic smile. "It's nice."

"I don't understand," Sherlock answered with a frown, fingers curling absentmindedly around Lyla's tiny hands.

"It's just..." A sigh. "It's nice to see that there is a softer side to you; there is a way to melt away that cold exterior." The doctor's gaze softened as he glanced towards Lyla. "It's nice."

"...I suppose I've not really thought about it, to be truthful. Hmm. Interesting."

"What's that?"

"Primitive paternal instincts," Sherlock murmured. "Even someone like me can display the most basic instincts ingrained into the fibre of our very beings. Usually I've found such instincts seemed to have evaded me."

"Such as?"

"Oh, general understanding of human behaviors and social cues, simple and complex emotional responses, compassion, understanding, the list goes on and on. It seems odd that such natural love for Lyla, coupled with paternal instincts to soothe, kiss, hold, and love should have graced their presence on me. It's quite interesting, when you think about it, really. I wonder if the actual pregnancy could have required such emotions and feelings to form, seeing as bonding between parent and child can occur in the womb. Hmm."

Quickly recognizing the look that had creased his flat mate's distinctive features, John smiled fondly, knowing Sherlock was lost in his own thoughts. Deciding to leave his friend to his ponderings, John set a hand on the baby seat and began to gently rock it back and forth, smiling to himself.

 

 

 

 

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked confusedly, gazing at Sherlock's quickly approaching form.

"Yes?" the detective asked, equally confused as he glided gracefully into the Detective Inspector's office, quickly followed by John, who was toting not only an empty car seat, but also the nappy bag, as well.

"What are you doing here?" the Inspector asked.

Sherlock's brow's quickly tugged together. "I'm here for new cases," he explained, raising a brow. "I did call. We discussed. We set a date."

Having just entered the office, and therefore the conversation, John set the nappy bag and the car seat down. "What are you on about?" he asked to no one in particular.

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock rolled his eyes and then slowly knelt down—not completely himself yet—and set Lyla in the car seat, fingers lingering just slightly as he pulled away and tucked a blanket around her tiny body. Straightening rather slowly once again, the detective turned to John with a sigh. "We had set a date for me to come to the office to receive new cases for me to work on, seeing as brain stimuli has been sorely lacking the past few months for obvious reasons. Yet, the Inspector here seems to have forgotten that we set such a date."

"Sherlock, that was nearly three months ago," Lestrade exclaimed, laughing in disbelief.

"Three months? Sherlock!"

"What?" the detective asked, now gazing confusedly at his flat mate.

"You set a date three months ago! You can't expect someone to—"

"Well, I suppose it wasn't an exact date. Although, I did take into consideration time for a premature birth, so technically speaking, my estimated date was almost exactly right. However, we made it a general date. We agreed that I would visit the office exactly a week after the baby was born. Today was a week from the birth, therefore, I'm here," Sherlock explained matter-of-factly, quite oblivious.

"Sherlock, I… I didn't really think you were serious. I mean, you've just had a baby. You've got to be exhausted. Both of you," Lestrade stated in mild disbelief.

"Exhaustion is no reason not to work the mind, Gary."

"It's Greg!" John and Lestrade both exclaimed at the same time.

An eyeroll. "Tedious. Either way, as I was saying. Exhaustion is no reason not to solve the cases everyone in this office is too thick to even attempt to."

"Sherlock." Heaving a sigh, John kneaded several fingers into his temple.

"What? I'm being honest. Isn't that typical… human behavior, or something?" the detective asked with an unamused wave of his fingers.

"Well..." Rubbing the back of his neck, Lestrade chuckled once again in disbelief. "We don't actually have any cases that we're unable to solve at the moment. Oh, uh, crime is alwyays low this kind of year," he added as explanation upon seeing Sherlock's rather disbelieving expression.

"Well, that's... rather amazing. Apologies, but, may I?" the detective asked, gesturing to one of the chairs set about in Lestrade's office.

"Yeah, yeah, of course."

Nodding, Sherlock took a seat and slowly crossed his legs. The detective's eyes quickly flicked to his daughter's slumbering form, and then back to Lestrade once satisfied that she was still safe and comfortable.

Frowning, John shuffled over to his friend. "Hey, doing all right?" he asked quietly, giving the detective's shoulder a pat.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Just... Just a bit tired, that's all. And sore, but that's beside the point."

"Well, can I get you anything?"

"Shut up."

"Right."

"Now, then. So you've got no cases, whatsoever?" Sherlock asked, raising a skeptical brow.

"Uh, no. But I'll tell you what. As soon as we get a case, I'll give you a call, and send everything over. Yeah?"

Contemplating, Sherlock worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "Fine. I suppose that... will be fine." Heaving a sigh, the detective shoved himself away from the chair. "Right, then. I suppose we needn't much else. Ring me when you will be dropping the next case over."

"Right, yeah, sure, of course," Lestrade murmured quickly. "I'll give you a call."

"Excellent." Sherlock turned to go, but paused when the Inspector cleared his throat. Turning back, the detective found Lestrade hurrying around his desk towards him. "Yes?" he asked with a raised brow.

"Nothing, I just... Wanted to make sure you're doing all right. Both of you," the Inspector added with a fond nod towards Lyla.

"Oh. Yes, we're both doing just fine. I think it's safe to say John and I are quite a bit more exhausted than normal, but such a thing is to be expected."

"Right, right. Good. I just thought I'd check."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, Lestrade."

"Mmm."

Nodding towards the Detective Inspector, Sherlock turned and very gently plucked Lyla from the baby seat. "Right, then. Thank you once again. Ring me as soon as you've got anything," the detective instructed.

"Of course. May I have a look before you go?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, of course." Realizing Lestrade was talking about Lyla, Sherlock angled his body so the Inspector could see her sleeping form.

"Well, hello there, little one," Greg cooed with a smile. "My, she is tiny, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she is," John chimed with a fond, half-smile.

"Lestrade?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you any idea if Molly is here today?"

"Oh. I... I don't think so. Or at least, I haven't seen her if she is."

"All right. Thank you."

"Yeah, sure... She's lovely." Nodding fondly between the two flat mates, Lestrade stuck his hands in his pockets, a small smile still present on his lips.

"Quite," Sherlock murmured with a nod. "Right, then... She'll probably need a feeding soon, and she usually gets quite fussy when such moments arrive, so we'll head back to the flat. Ready, John?"

"Yep. After you." Nappy bag and car seat in hand, John followed after his flat mate, sending a wave back to Lestrade as a way of thanks. The doctor couldn't help but grin fondly when he heard Sherlock's deep voice murmuring to Lyla, no doubt explaining precisely how and why each and every person they were passing was incompetent. Despite the fact she was asleep.

 

 

 

 

Several days later, Sherlock sat in his chair, clothed in a button-up, dress pants, and his robe. Palms flattened against one another, the detective took a deep breath in through his nose, every ounce of him practically twitching in preparation of the package that was soon to be delivered at any moment.

The detective all-but-bounced out of his chair upon hearing the recently-repaired doorbell ring. "Be right back, love," he murmured to the cot Lyla was sleeping in. Robe billowing behind him, Sherlock quickly padded down the stairs, opening the door once at the bottom. "You have a case for me?" he asked Lestrade, gaze flicking to the envelope in the Detective Inspector's hand.

"Yep! Weird one. We're all stumped."

"Hardly shocking."

"Hey, now."

"Apologies. Sort of. Not really, so! Can I have it, then? Lyla's upstairs sleeping, and John's at clinic today. I'd rather not leave her alone for longer than necessary."

"Oh! Yeah, sure, of course. Here you go."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Lestrade."

"My pleasure." The Inspector smiled at the young detective and clapped him on the shoulder. "You look well."

"I am. Quite. Especially now I've got a case; my mind has been sorely lacking in the stimuli I now realize solving cases gives me." The detective suddenly rolled his eyes and looked rather feeble. "And, I can't… seem to find… my nicotine patches." There came a small cry from upstairs. "Oh. That's Lyla, I need to go," Sherlock murmured suddenly.

Lestrade couldn't help but smile at the way Sherlock's entire form changed upon hearing his daughter's cries; the Inspector could practically see each of the detective's lean muscles tensing underneath the pale, creamy skin of his arms.

"See you, Sherlock. Give me a call when you've solved it," Lestrade chuckled, closing the door behind him as he left the flat.

"Yes." File in hand, Sherlock hurried back up the stairs, and over to Lyla, whose cries had subsided and who was now testing out her limbs by stretching them back and forth. "We," the detective sighed excitedly, "have a case! Your very first one." Sherlock chuckled aloud when Lyla merely cooed in response, eyes sliding shut and then open again as she stared up at him.

Grinning fondly, Sherlock opened the file, and with eager fingers began sifting through the papers, searching for any and all information of consequence. "Murder," he stated with interest. "Excellent. Male. Approximately 25 years old. Unusual wound to the abdomen. Unidentified. Perfect." Concluding he'd gathered enough facts to begin brainstorming, the detective stood, and gathered Lyla's fragile form into his arms. "I say we take a walk, hmm? Yes?"

As if concluding this idea to be satisfactory, Lyla yawned and snuggled contently against her father's chest, blue eyes just barely open.

"My thoughts exactly." The detective pressed a tender kiss to the baby girl's nose, laughing when she made some sort of snuffling sound in response, and seemed to sneeze. "My apologies, love," he chuckled.

"Mmm." Now appearing to be more awake, Lyla took a tiny hand and with haphazard movements, grabbed ahold of Sherlock's shirt. Her tiny hand curled around the fabric beneath her fingers. Another yawn.

Sherlock paused the thinking that had been occurring in his mind and glanced down, heart skipping a beat beneath his chest when he saw Lyla gazing intently up at him and felt her tiny hand clenching and unclenching around the fabric of his shirt. "Hello," he whispered, finding his baby daughter always managed to steal his voice from him.

"Mm-bah." With something that resembled a smile curling up a corner of her tiny lips, Lyla pulled on her father's shirt as much as her small arms would allow.

Deciding the case could wait just a few more moments, Sherlock took this moment to study his daughter and catalogue everything he found in the newest section of his mind palace, devoted entirely to the baby girl. The detective noticed each gentle blink of her eyes, the way her eyelashes almost brushed against her days-old cheeks with each fall. With a smile, Sherlock took note of how the baby girl seemed to startle herself when she breathed deeply enough, and the tiny hum that would emanate from her throat when he spoke. "You are something else, aren't you?" he murmured fondly. "Mmm. Right, then. A case! We have case!" Quickly returning to the mindset of case-solving, Sherlock pressed several playful kisses to his daughter's hand, pleased when it elicited several smiles. "Mmm. You precious thing... Let's solve a case!"

 

 

 

 

"Sherlock?" John called as he returned to the flat, tucking his keys into his pocket.

"We're upstairs," called the detective in return. John could hear the exhaustion lacing his friend's deep voice. "Poor git," he chuckled with a shake of his head. Deciding to give Sherlock a break, the doctor took the steps up two at a time and paused at the entryway, leaning against the doorway with a fond smirk. "Well, then. Got a new case, did we?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he gazed at Sherlock's pacing form. The detective had managed to situate Lyla in such a way that he could tote her around with one arm and simultaneously feed her with the same hand. His other hand was currently being used to support his laptop, at which the detective was squinting intently, eyes bearing the amount of focus Sherlock usually reserved only for a case... And now Lyla, too, John had learned.

"Hm? Oh. Hello, John. And yes, we've received a new case. Lestrade was kind enough to run it over. Tell me, what do you know about swords?" Sherlock asked distractedly, though the distraction was partly due to his making sure Lyla was safe and comfortable.

"Swords? Uh, not much. Why?" The doctor took a step into the sitting room, eyes following Sherlock's still-pacing form.

"I believe our victim may have been murdered by one. Unfortunately, however, it seems my knowledge on such weapons is... rather lacking," the detective muttered with a yawn, scowling at his laptop when it was apparently not giving him the answer he was seeking. Or perhaps because he had yawned. John couldn't really tell. The doctor couldn't help but smile at the way Lyla was watching each of her father's movements with attentive, though slightly confused eyes while she sucked happily at the bottle the detective was holding.

"The sword I'm looking for has a very precise shape, due to the wounds on our victim, but... I can't seem to find any database for such a thing," Sherlock muttered in frustration. Lyla whined unhappily in response. "Oh." Frowning slightly, Sherlock set his laptop down and began to gently rock back and forth, realizing he'd become too engrossed in the case. "Sorry, love," the detective murmured as he pressed an apologetic kiss to the baby girl's nose. "My apologies. You're quite right. Oh. I do believe you are in need of a nappy change, yeah?"

Lyla merely cooed contently in response, tiny fingers curling against the hand her father was using to support the bottle.

"Oh, pleased about that are we?" Sherlock chuckled with a fond smile. A sigh. "Right. Let's go."

"I'll do it."

Sherlock turned his attention to John, who was gazing expectantly at him. "What?"

"I'll take care of the nappy change. I've been gone all day, you need a rest, and she doesn't seem to be tiring very much, so I can take care of her for the rest of the day. I've also taken the day off tomorrow."

"Oh." Sherlock's gaze suddenly softened as he gazed at the doctor. "Thank you, John." A sudden realization flashed across the detective's icy blue eyes and his lips parted with the thought. "Thank you," he murmured again with a slow nod of his head.

"Of course... What's the matter?" A pause. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Nothing, nothing," the detective answered quickly, blinking away his occurrence. "You're quite sure?" He gestured down to Lyla with his eyes.

"Of course, Sherlock. I mean, you went through all the work to bring her here, surely I can do my bit," John answered with a reassuring smile. "Plus, you've been changing nappies all day today."

A genuine smile danced over Sherlock's lips, one of those rare, warm smiles that even John barely witnessed. "That's... very thoughtful." Blinking his attention away from his flat mate, Sherlock pressed a playful kiss to Lyla's cheeks and then passed her small form to John, keeping the bottle in his hand. "There you are."

"Ah. Hello there, Lyla," the doctor cooed with a warm smile. "Who's my precious little girl, hmm? Is that you?" A playful gasp. "Yes, is that you?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh with an eyeroll. "Why do you insist on speaking to her like that?" he groaned, raising a disapproving brow.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John laughed, pleased when Lyla made a grab for him. "She's a baby."

"That is not an explanation."

"Babies like it when you speak to them like that. It's more entertaining for them," John continued, making playful face at the baby girl in his arms, totally enamored with her.

"But she's not dull. She's just unable to process words yet. That does not mean that you must speak to her like she's incompetent," the detective continued with a sigh.

Smiling, John merely raised his brows at his flat mate in a look that clearly said: I don't really care, I shall continue to do it anyway. Chuckling at the scowl his flat mate had sent him, the doctor turned his attention back to the cooing baby in his arms and sauntered into the kitchen.

"Mmm." A sly smile dancing over his lips, Sherlock meandered over to the couch, sat down, and rolled over, instantly taking the position he'd assumed for so many months past, legs tucked close to his belly, arms curled around his middle. The detective even found he rather missed the curve of his belly that had once prevented him from curling completely around himself. Smiling at Lyla's cooing sounds that were floating in from the kitchen, Sherlock rolled over, keeping his arms wrapped around him and allowed his eyes to slide closed, incredible grateful for the man in the other room as he soon felt his body giving up.

"You know, Sherlock, you may want to take note of how much she smiles when I talk like… Oh." The doctor paused, gently bouncing Lyla up and down in his arms, when he found his flat mate curled up on the couch. John couldn't help but take note of the way the detective's lean arms were wrapped around his stomach. Knowing Sherlock was truly asleep, and suspecting he may be out for awhile, the doctor found a blanket and, keeping Lyla close, padded over his friend, draping the fabric over his lean, curled up form. "There you go, mate," he murmured, patting the detective on the shoulder. "Get some sleep."

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a small gasp, somewhat startling himself even further awake. Almost instantly, and out of habit, the detective's hand traveled to his stomach, as if searching for Lyla. He soon realized, however, that he was wrapped in a blanket and that it was night outside. John.

With a small hint of a smile, Sherlock slid out from under the warmth of the blanket enveloping him, and slowly stood, in search of his daughter. "John?" the detective called, rubbing absently at his neck. When no response came, Sherlock padded into the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

The detective turned to his left to see the doctor enter into view from the direction of his room. "Ah. Thank you for the uh... Ahem. That was... Good."

"You're welcome. Did you get a fair rest, then?"

"Yes, I believe so. Lyla?"

"Oh, I just put her down. She seems quite worn out."

"Well, she's had quite a day. First murder," Sherlock explained, almost sounding excited. "Oh! Speaking of, I need to get back to that. Soon as I've said goodnight to Lyla." Turning on his heel, the detective gently brushed past his friend, not noticing the smile on the doctor's lips, and then entered his room, treading on soft feet so as to make as little sound as possible. "Oh, there's my little one," he whispered as he reached the cot, eyes brightening and crinkling at the corners as he smiled. "There she is..."

Voice just barely a whisper, Sherlock tilted his head to the side as he gazed at his sleeping daughter, amazed by the beauty of her tiny form. Amazed by her presence in front of him at all. "I wonder when that will stop happening," the detective mused aloud, suspecting it might never. "Hm. Look what you've done to me," he whispered with a rumble of a chuckle, taking several slender fingers and ducking them into the cot. With slow, careful movements, Sherlock pressed the pad of his finger against Lyla's fingers, inhaling when the baby girl wrapped her entire hand around his fingertip, sighing softly in her sleep. "My Lyla... Hmm." A smile. "Goodnight, little one. I love you so impossibly much."

A strong yearning in his chest telling him to stay and sit with his daughter, but knowing he had a pressing case needing to be solved, Sherlock contorted his body just enough so he could lean down into the cot and press his lips to his daughter's fingertips, eyelids, nose, and cheeks. "Goodnight," he whispered again. "Sleep well, love." With reluctant movements, the detective managed to pull his fingertip from his daughter's grasp, feeling a rather sad pull in his chest when he began to exit the room. Sherlock paused in the doorway, a graceful hand resting on the wood of the doorframe, and glanced back. He could just barely make out his daughter's small form through the bars of the cot. "Look what you're doing to me," he whispered with a tender quirk of his lips. "Mmm." Releasing the wood from his grasp, Sherlock exited his room, heading to the kitchen. "Oh, God bless you, John Watson," the detective sighed in relief when he realized the doctor was making tea.

Jumping just a tad, John turned, realizing his flat mate was eyeing the teamaker. "Wow," he drawled sarcastically. "That's a tad bit extreme, even for you."

"I quite disagree. On occasion, now being one of them, tea is such an impossible relief."

"For what?"

"Everything. My mind is a tad bit overloaded at the moment. My body, as well for that matter," Sherlock stated, brows tugging together upon coming to the realization. "How unfortunate."

"What's that?"

"Me."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

The doctor heaved a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. "We've discussed this before?" Silence. "No? Really?" Another sigh. "The rest of us do not exist in your superior mind, Sherlock. You've got to let us in every once in a while."

"Oh, right. All I meant was that—though I love Lyla dearly—it is rather unfortunate that I'm experiencing such normal, human, trivial responses to lack of sleep. Usually such things do not affect me as adversely as they have the past week."

"Yeah, well... That'll happen with a new baby. Ah. Tea's done." Turning to the teamaker, John pulled out the pot, scrounged up two cups, and poured a cup for himself and Sherlock. "There you are, mate."

Exhaling in relief, Sherlock eagerly took the hot cup of tea from his friend's outstretched hand and wrapped his own slender fingers around the mug, closing his eyes when he pressed his lips to edge, taking a sip. "Thank you."

"Yeah, sure."

"Mm. Right, well… I have a case. Care to help?"

"Sure, sure. You go start, I'm going to tidy up a bit in here."

"Right. Swords. Be thinking about swords," Sherlock warned lightheartedly and with a raised brow before disappearing into the sitting room.

"Right. Swords." With a smile and a shake of his head, the doctor quickly cleaned up what he could in the kitchen before deciding it was sufficient enough. Cup of tea in hand, John sauntered into the sitting room, instantly recognizing Sherlock's 'thinking' pose. "So, then. Swords?" he asked the detective, whose tall form was spread over the couch, eyes closed, long fingers pressed against his lips.

"Swords," Sherlock's deep voice rumbled.

"Swords. Alright, then."

"Yes, swords, we've determined that. Anyway. The victim was stabbed at precisely a forty-two degree angle. I'm hoping that Lestrade will be able to send me precise pictures of the wound, so that we might be able to determine the size of the sword, seeing as we cannot visit the actual corpse ourselves. Unfortunately, though, it appears—"

"How did you even figure out it was a sword?"

Sherlock turned his head only enough so he could make eye contact with John, opened his steel-blue eyes, and then raised a brow. "I'm too tired to explain something so obvious," he merely stated, before returning to his previous pose.

John merely smiled in response and, settling into his chair, listened as his flat mate continued to explain his findings on the current case, now quite used to Sherlock's audible ponderings and musings. It was not long before Lyla, having begun crying, was situated on the bare skin of Sherlock's chest, her impossibly tiny fingers curled tightly around her father's while he rubbed circles up and down her bare back with incredible tenderness.

And John, smiling at his two flat mate's, and not really listening to the detective much-softer musings, merely settled into the night and watched as father and daughter breathed in tandem.


	15. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Okay so, I promise for all the m-preg lovers out there that there will be more of that coming up soon. =) I also wish to announce that I think I may have found a way to satisfy both Johnlock and non-Johnlock lovers. I've always really loved the idea that John and Sherlock, having worked and lived together for so many years are already practically a couple; there just needn't be any sexual aspect to their relationship. I enjoy the thought of them being two best friends who are, in a way, in love with each other, and in love with who the opposite one is and does. They complete each other. But neither needs or wants each other in a sexual or lustful way. Or at least that's where I plan on taking it with this fic. I hope that makes sense and can please both sides. =P
> 
> Also! I would really love some feedback on whether you guys want more baby Lyla fluff or want a time-skip to when she's a bit older. =) Thanks everyone! You all are wonderful and I truly appreciate your feedback!

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of the doorbell ringing. "Mrs. Hudson!" the detective groaned, knowing it was the landlady who had installed it once again. He could practically hear John's groan from his own room when Lyla's screams soon echoed around the flat.

Wiping away the moisture from his eyes that now seemed to accompany his wakings, Sherlock rolled out of bed and grabbed his robe from the back of his bedroom door, draping it over his lanky form. "I'm coming, sweetheart. I'm coming," the detective murmured as he padded over to Lyla's cot. "I'm..." A yawn. "Here." As he lifted his daughter's wailing form from the cot, Sherlock could hear John's treads down the stairs, going to answer the door. The detective could hear a quickly muttered, "Bloody hell," before the sound of the door opening.

Leaving the caller to John, Sherlock decided to tend to Lyla, hoping to ease her loud cries. "What seems to be the matter, now, love?" he asked, cuddling the baby girl close.

Having quite clearly concluded the situation was not getting better, Lyla flailed her small limbs about, in turn kicking her father in the chest, though the blows were so light and gentle that they did little harm.

"Oh. Hey now. I've already dealt with nine months of that," Sherlock chuckled tiredly. "Although, I suppose it was technically more like five months, seeing as I couldn't feel your movements for the first four months... Trivial. I've strayed. The point I was trying to make was that I've already had my fair share of kicking." The detective smiled when Lyla seemed to calm ever-so-slightly in his arms, and started a bottle going, hoping the baby girl was merely hungry.

Soon, John's footsteps could be heard treading quickly back up the stairs.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, gently bouncing Lyla up and down in his arms while he waited for the bottle to finish.

"That... was your brother. Well, sort of. You may just want to head down and see for yourself," John explained with a chuckle.

"I don't understand." Frowning, Sherlock grabbed the finished bottle out of its warmer and tested the milk on his wrist before inserting the nipple into Lyla's mouth. The little girl instantly quieted and relaxed in her father's arms as she sucked at the formula.

"Just... Come along." A sly smile on his lips, John turned, gesturing to his flat mate that he was to follow, and began to make his way back down the stairs.

"Why can't the man just state what my brother's done?" Sherlock asked Lyla in exasperation, quite exhausted and in no mood to see what scheme or trick his brother had planned for him today. A sigh. "Well... At least you seem quite content now," the detective added with a quirk of his lips, pleased to see Lyla had calmed.

Still bouncing up and down, Sherlock rolled his eyes and left the kitchen, deciding to humor his flat mate. "We'll have to see what you're able to do with him once you're older, hmm?" the detective joked with a fond smile as he slowly descended the stairs. "Right, then," he sighed upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. "What exactly has my brother done this... Oh, dear Lord," Sherlock sighed upon seeing the several, huge packages of nappies John seemed to have dragged into the entryway. "Mycroft."

"Told you. Seems your brother was feeling friendly."

"Friendly?" Ever the detective, Sherlock's keen eyes scanned the several packages of nappies and found a folded note attached to one. "Hmm." Keeping Lyla close, Sherlock crouched down and plucked the note away with slender fingers. Once opened, the detective found his brother's unique handwriting scrawled across the page: Good morning, little brother. Apologies if my package has woken you. Sherlock could practically hear the sneer in his brother's voice leaking off the page. There's an additional gift for Lyla underneath. Enjoy, little brother.

"I'm going to go get some tea running," John declared, having just yawned. "We can bring all this up in a little while, yeah?"

"Mmm," is all Sherlock hummed in response.

"Good." With a small smile, John clapped is flat mate gently on the shoulder and then lagged his way back up the stairs.

"A gift," Sherlock murmured, glancing towards Lyla. "Damn him for piquing my curiosity." Making sure Lyla was safe and secure in his arms, Sherlock crouched down and began rooting around the packages of nappies, fingers stilling when he felt something that was definitely not the plastic wrap he'd been feeling, but was rather a soft material. Frowning, the detective pulled out the object, rolling his eyes and chuckling upon seeing the green elephant grasped between his fingertips. "Sentiment, Mycroft. How uncommon," he murmured softly with a twitch of his lips. "Hmm." One of the detective's slender fingers glided over the ear of the stuffed animal, years of memories rushing back in a golden flow that seems to warm his entire being. "Sentiment," Sherlock repeated again, silver eyes floating to Lyla.

Elephant in hand, the detective slowly stood and, after running the soft animal through his fingers several more times, settled it atop Lyla's blanketed form. "I do believe this is yours now," he murmured, keeping the animal held in place with the hand that also happened to be feeding her.

"Mmm-ah," Lyla cooed, several tiny fingers wrapping around the animal's ear as she continued to drink from the bottle, eyes closed.

"Yes, exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed with a smile, pleased with his daughter's response. "That's yours now, love," he cooed as began ascending the stairs. "And so the spoils shall begin. I'm referring to my brother, of course. I do believe he's quite taken with you... Hmm. As he should be," the detective added when the baby girl smiled in his arms, apparently quite pleased with the stuffed elephant.

Having reached the landing, Sherlock padded into the sitting room, knowing John was probably going to bring him a cuppa once it was completed.

"Ohh, here we go, love," the detective sighed as he gently lowered Lyla into one of the many baby swings that were now scattered throughout the flat. "Let's try some rocking for today." Seating himself on the couch, Sherlock leaned forward and flicked two switches, one to start the chair rocking, and another to make the mobile situated above the rocker spinning. "Are we done?" he asked in reference to the bottle Lyla no longer seemed interested in. "Right, then." The detective pulled away the nearly-empty bottle.

"What's that?" John asked with a nod to the bright green elephant that was tucked into the swing with Lyla, taking a seat across from his flat mate, two cups of tea in hand.

"An elephant."

The doctor's eyes quickly traveled upward and then back down again. "That's not what I meant, Sherlock," he muttered as he passed the detective a cup.

"Hmm? Oh. You mean what's it for, and information such as that."

"Yeah."

"Right. Mycroft sent it. Underneath the garishly large amount of nappies for Lyla."

"Oh. Well that was very nice of him."

Sherlock snorted. "Was it?"

"Yes. Nappies are expensive, Sherlock. It seems to me that this was an act of kindness, not aggression," John explained with a raised brow.

"Mmm." Contemplating, Sherlock glanced once again to the elephant. "Perhaps. He always was more sentimental than he cared to let on."

"How is that sentimental?"

"I, uh… Actually had an elephant much like this one when I was little… One of the few things I found joy in as a young boy. Besides science and experiments and dissecting, that is. I kept him for quite a long while."

"Him?" John asked with a smug smirk.

"Oh, shut up."

"Right. Well that's nice, isn't it?"

"Ohh, perhaps," Sherlock sighed, leaning back, and taking a pensive sip of his tea. "But I'm sure my brother will eventually find some way to harass me about it."

"Mmm. Probably."

 

 

 

 

 

"Bloody hell, John," Sherlock muttered that afternoon as he sat feeding Lyla in his chair, legs crossed gracefully over one another. "When will these bloody hormones eradicate themselves?" the detective muttered, quite clearly frustrated.

"Hormones? Why, what's happening?" John asked as he pulled off his coat, having just returned from work.

Sherlock suddenly looked quite feeble and almost embarrassed.

John sat across his flat mate, taking a seat in his own chair. "What's happened, Sherlock?"

"My emotions seem to be out of my control at the moment," Sherlock admitted with an embarrassed frown. "It is incredibly frustrating."

John couldn't help but chuckle to himself just a bit, which clear seemed to offend his flat mate.

"It's not my fault, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, glaring at his snickering flat mate. The detective threw his arms up in the air upon feeling more tears begin to sting his eyes. "Insufferable!"

"Sherlock," John started, still smiling, "that's completely normal and nothing to be ashamed of. It'll still probably take another week or so before all the hormones are completely gone." The doctor placed a hand atop his flat mate's knee, raising an apologetic brow. "It's normal," he reassured with a smile.

Sherlock sniffled and then wiped away the frustrated tears that had slid out of the corner of his eyes. "Insufferable," he muttered once again, averting his gaze. "Such things that were producing the tears were not even emotionally stimulating," he continued with another sniff, gently rocking Lyla back and forth.

"Like what?" John asked, attempting to conceal his smile.

"Passersby on the street, and-and an ad on the telly! It's quite preposterous."

"And completely normal."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock absentmindedly adjusted the tiny hat covering his daughter's head." I suppose…" The detective's lips quirked at the corners when Lyla cooed in her sleep. "Oh." Sherlock suddenly became aware that the baby girl's lips were pursing back and froth, as if she was sucking on a bottle. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"Why's she doing that?"

"What? Oh!" The doctor suddenly bounced out of his chair, able to feel Sherlock's confused gaze on his back. "I got this for her the other day," John called behind him, explaining. "I had been using it for her when she sleeps." Object in hand, the doctor hurried back into the sitting room and took his seat once again. "This," he stated, holding out the object he'd retrieved, "is a pacifier."

Staring confusedly at the object, Sherlock reached forward and took it from his flat mate's fingers. "She just sucks on it?" he asked, inspecting the object as if there were some riddle to unsolve from it.

"Yep."

"But… won't she expect there to be milk?"

"No, Sherlock," John chuckled. "Babies just enjoy the repetitive motion of sucking. And it'll be a big help with teething when she gets older."

"Oh. Alright, then." Brows pulled together, Sherlock hesitantly placed the pacifier in Lyla's mouth, releasing it when the baby girl had ahold of it." Hm," he hummed, raising an amused eyebrow. "That's… rather ingenious, actually."

"Yeah, no kidding," John chuckled in agreement. "Did I also mention pacifiers have an uncanny knack for calming screaming babies on occasion?"

Eyes wide, Sherlock turned his gaze to John's. "Brilliant."

"Oh, yeah."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Where are you going?" Sherlock whispered from where he was lying on the couch, Lyla settled tenderly atop his bare chest.

"Surgery, Sherlock," John chuckled as he pulled on his coat. "I've got to work the afternoon shift today, remember? We did discuss it. And we need as much money as is possible right now."

"Oh. How unfortunate."

"Why's that?"

"Lestrade called me this morning, saying he'd be dropping a case off later."

"Oh. Well, just work on it a bit for the rest of the afternoon, and if you've not solved it by the time I'm off, I'll help you."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed with a pout, turning his attention back to Lyla with a scowl.

John chuckled. "Buck up, mate. It's not the end of the world," he teased, snatching his keys.

"Certainly not. Just the end of any interesting plans I'd had for the day."

"Well… You'll just have to make something interesting then, won't you?"

"Mmm. I suppose… Though it's not terribly hard with this little one. She's quite amazing, isn't she?" Sherlock asked, emphasizing his point with a kiss.

"Hmm." Now situated, John turned his gaze back to his flat mate, smiling at the baby girl situated atop his chest. "Well, she looks quite content, doesn't she?"

"Mmm."

"Now, then." Wrapping his fingers around his keys, John padded over to the couch and bent down so he could press a kiss atop Lyla's head. "Mmm," he hummed when the baby girl cooed in her sleep. "Yes. Quite content, indeed... So, then... I'm off. Call if you need anything, okay? Yeah?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured simply in response.

"Good. Be back." After clapping his flat mate gently on the shoulder, the doctor hurried down the stairs and out of the flat.

"Hmm." Having followed his flat mate's form with his eyes, Sherlock turned his gaze back to his slumbering daughter, only to find she was not slumbering anymore, but was rather gazing up at him with wide eyes. "Oh. Well hello there, my darling," the detective murmured with a smile. "Hmm. You're quite an observant little one aren't you?"

"Mmm-bah," the baby girl cooed, eyes squeezing shut as she yawned.

"Mm. I quite agree," Sherlock chuckled in agreement. Tucking his robe around Lyla's tiny form, the detective sat up, pressing the baby girl close to his chest. "I must say, I'm quite surprised you're not sleeping more," he murmured as he slowly stood. "Perhaps you take after myself… Though I wouldn't highly recommend it." Supporting his daughter's far-weaker head with his hand, Sherlock began to pace around the sitting room, his pace slow and rhythmic. "It seems to be poor for my health. Or at least that's what John claims… And, though I hate to admit it, he's correct far more than I ever let on. So best to listen to him, then, hmm?"

"Mm-ah."

Still pacing, Sherlock turned his gaze to Lyla's, pleased to find she was still staring intently up at him, as if she wished to hang on his every word. "Oh, my love," the detective murmured with a rumble, "I do so love you…" Continuing his pacing, Sherlock pressed several kisses to Lyla's cheeks and to the palm of the tiny hand he had grasped in his own.

Eyes slipping shut, Lyla heaved a quick and heavy sigh, settling into the familiar and warm holds of her father's chest and arms.

Sherlock could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin as she exhaled. "Mmm," the detective hummed, pleased to feel his daughter's chest rising and falling against his own with each of her breaths. "Now we wait," he murmured, glancing towards the stairs. "And soon we shall have a case on our hands, yes? Until then, I suppose we should just talk…"

Lyla cooed contently in response.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John returned home that evening after a particularly dull day at surgery to be met with a strangely unusual silence floating throughout the flat, one he did not recognize. The doctor had become quite used to the different kinds of silences that he could be met with when returning home from work. There was the quiet that indicated Sherlock had conducted a particularly dangerous experiment, and it had gone wrong, resulting in either the destruction of the kitchen, or the removal of certain furniture or appliances due to their ruination. Then there was the silence that indicated Sherlock was knee-deep in a case, and was not to be disturbed. However, the worst silences occurred when Sherlock was in a mood, which meant practically any eye contact, language, or sound could set off a days-long funk during which the detective would refuse to eat, talk.

But this silence had a strangely solemn feel to it. Frowning, John made his way up the familiar tread of the stairs and then silently entered the sitting room. "Sherlock?" he asked upon catching sight of his flat mate.

The detective was stood at the window, his back towards the doctor.

"Sherlock, is anything the matter?" John asked hesitantly, worried the detective may be in a mood.

"The file, John. Look at the file," Sherlock murmured, voice low, and... some other emotion John couldn't quite place. Frowning, the doctor turned his gaze to the table and found a file—obviously from Lestrade—resting in the corner. "What's the matter with it?"

"Just open it."

John hesitantly obeyed. "Oh," he sighed in realization upon seeing the picture tucked into the front. A child. "Sherlock, you don't have to accept this case, you know." The doctor jumped when Sherlock spun around, the movement quick and rushed.

"Of course I do!" the detective exclaimed, almost angrily. "How would you feel if that was Lyla and the one person who had the best chance of finding who did this to her refused? Of course we have to take this case!"

File in hand, John stared at his obviously-upset friend and raised a hand. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, you're right. I hadn't thought of it like that. Of course we'll take the case," he murmured carefully, understanding part of his flat mate's upset, but also suspecting it had been amplified by the hormones still attempting to flush themselves out of his system. "I'm sorry," he repeated, genuinely meaning it. The doctor suddenly realized that Sherlock was not only a parent in the literal sense—meaning he had a child in his care—but he'd also developed the instincts and traits exhibited by parents; the need to protect. "We'll solve this case," he reassured, taking a step towards the detective in the dark. "We will. I promise."

Sherlock's heart practically ached. Ached for the child whose picture was in the file in John's hand. Ached for the doctor himself. For how much appreciation he had for the man. Ached about the amount of bloody hormones buzzing through his system. And suddenly he had a strong urge to...

"Now, we should probably start by—" John quite literally froze in placed when Sherlock suddenly seemed to lunge toward him. Worried some sort of physical assault may be coming, the doctor raised a hand, only to have it freeze in place when two lanky arms wrapped themselves around his neck and Sherlock's form was suddenly very close to his own. "Oh—I—" John found he was at a loss for words. Sherlock Holmes was hugging him. With his arms… And he wasn't pulling out of them.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered into the soft skin of John's neck. "Thank you, John Watson."

Still at a loss for words and with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, the doctor merely nodded in response. He could feel as each of Sherlock's fingers curled against his back and neck, tightening his grip just slightly. "Yeah," John whispered eventually. "You're welcome, mate." With a sudden impulsive twitch of his fingers, John suddenly found he was returning the hug, wrapping his arms around his flat mate's taller form and tucking his head against the detective's shoulder. "You're welcome, mate."

Sherlock uttered something between a chuckle and a sob, tightening his grip around the doctor. "Damn it," the detective muttered upon feeling the familiar sting of tears. "Bloody hormones."

Laughing, John pulled back just slightly, enough so he could see his flat mate and keep the detective in his arms. "It may be a tad bit more than that," he suggested with a playful raise of his brow.

"… Perhaps," Sherlock admitted with a smile of his own. "Thank you, John." With a quick sniffle, the detective released John from his lanky grasp. "You're… I'm not quite sure what I would do without you."

A smile graced the doctor's lips. "You'd be just fine," he reassured, clapping his flat mate on the shoulder.

"Mmm… John?"

"Hm?"

"I… I hope you don't think that I… want—" Sherlock gestured loosely to the space between them.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I don't either. I… I'm not quite sure how to explain what this is."

Sherlock's lips quirked at the corners. "Perhaps it doesn't need one."

"What's that?"

"An explanation."

"Hm. Quite."

"So… We'll take the case, then?" Sherlock asked, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

"And we're going to solve it."

A nod. "Good. I've barely glanced at the file, so we'll need to start by—"

"Getting some decent rest, Sherlock."

"Oh. But John, we need to—"

"No. What we need right now is sleep. Trust me."

Sherlock's previously-taut features relaxed in agreement. "Very well… If you insist." Out of habit—one formed during the pregnancy—the detective wrapped his robe around his middle and took a deep breath. "John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Would you… join me?" Sherlock asked, cheeks flushing a dark pink. "It's-it's just that I—I'm not quite…" The detective heaved a sigh. "I'd rather not be alone tonight," he whispered in the dark, the blush burning atop his cheeks.

"Join you? You mean… oh. Oh. Uh, yeah. Yes, of course I will, Sherlock."

"Thank you. It's just… you have a gun… And I want Lyla to be as protected as is possible and you upstairs quite defeats such a purpose."

John merely smiled. "Right. Come along then." With a small half-smile, the doctor offered his hand.

Features suddenly forming a pensive expression, Sherlock's silvery eyes travelled to his flat mate's outstretched hand. Lips quirking just slightly at the side, the detective reached a careful hand forward and, after a moment's hesitation, set his fingertips against John's.

"Right, then." Twining their hands together in an act that to some would seem the movement of a couple, but to John was merely a movement of kindness, the doctor tugged Sherlock towards him ever-so-slightly and then led the detective—who was clearly unsure of himself—into his bedroom, careful to tread softly as he knew Lyla was asleep. "All right?" he whispered in the dark.

"Mmm."

"Good… Right, then… I'll just…" Deciding not to release Sherlock's fingers from his grasp when the detective only gripped them more tightly, John slowly crawled into Sherlock's bed, unused to the unfamiliar dips and contours.

Convinced his flat mate could feel as his pulse beat unforgivingly in his fingertips, Sherlock held tight to the doctor's fingers as he crawled into bed next to the doctor, so unused to having someone sharing his bed…

Once settled on his back, John's fingers still gripped firmly in his own, the detective glanced to his left in the dark, just barely able to make out the doctor's shape. "John?" he asked, fingers twitching just slightly as he took a breath.

"Yeah, Sherlock?" John asked, amazed how at ease he felt with the situation, how natural he felt lying next to his flat mate… His best friend.

"Thank you… John… I… I'm quite ashamed to admit I do not know how to show my appreciation for doing something such as this, something so-so—" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence when he felt John give a reassuring squeeze of his fingers. "Sherlock."

The detective took a breath. "Yes?"

"You've no need to apologize nor thank me. We're not… like that. As you said, perhaps what we have does not merit an explanation, it just is."

"… I'm afraid that makes very little sense, John," Sherlock admitted, the scolding tone clear in his voice.

John would have laughed aloud had Lyla not been sleeping soundly next to them. "We're not a couple. Not like that, at least. I don't mean to be offending, but Sherlock I have absolutely no interest in shagging you. Sorry," he added quickly when he could practical feel the heat of the blush now resting atop his flat mate's cheekbones radiating towards him. "You're my best friend… And I'd do anything to make you feel safe. Even if it means holding your hand now and again or spending a night with you… God knows I owe you at least that…"

Contemplating his friend's words, Sherlock turned his head, and gazed into Lyla's cot, eyes able to make out her slumbering form. A picture of the child in the file resting the other room flashed through the detective's mind. Sadness suddenly filling his chest, Sherlock quickly reached through the bars on the cot and set a hand atop Lyla's back, pleased to feel it rising and falling with each of her breaths. "I owe you so much more, John Watson," the detective murmured so quietly he wasn't sure the doctor had heard. "Thank you," he added more loudly.

John just gave another squeeze of his fingers. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight… John."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a gasp when he felt Lyla stir beneath his hand in her cot. Practically able to feel the cries he knew were soon to follow, the detective rolled onto his side, quite literally jumping when an arm that was not his own slid across his waist.

"Oh." Suddenly remembering what had happened that night, Sherlock glanced to his left with a quirk of his lips, realizing John's arm must have made its way over his stomach while they'd slept. It felt… oddly comforting, the detective noted. He was pulled out of his musings, however, by several quick breaths to his right. "I thought I would be getting more sleep with you not rolling around in my middle every night," Sherlock sighed as he rolled out of bed, preparing to soothe his daughter's cries. In a movement that was so natural he barely noticed, the detective squeezed John's fingertips with his own as he slid out of the bed, quite shocked afterwards that he'd even done such a thing. "Hmm," he hummed softly as he reached into the cot and pulled Lyla out, pleased to have her tiny, reassuring form in his arms once again. "Interesting."

Knowing his daughter would be needing a bottle and probably a nappy change, the detective gazed for a few moments at his sleeping flat mate, chuckling aloud when he found the doctor seemed to be snoring. "Well, we learn something new every day, don't we?" he whispered to Lyla, a smile in his voice. "My, what a life you're going to have, my love… I do wish you the best of luck."

Pressing soft, incredibly tender kisses to his daughter's forehead, Sherlock slowly padded out of the room, shutting the door behind him so John wouldn't wake should the baby girl begin to cry. "Just wanted a walk, then did we?" he chuckled upon finding Lyla now seemed to be perfectly content. "Well, that's quite all right… I understand. I'm more of a night person, myself."

Having found he quite enjoyed talking with his daughter, Sherlock took a seat in his chair and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around the both of them. "That's quite all right… Hmm." Rocking back and forth, the detective reached under the blanket and pulled off the tiny socks John had put on Lyla's feet, knowing that they were far too big and would only fall off anyway. "There we go… That's better isn't it? Now, then… I suppose tonight we could talk about Molly, yeah? Seeing as we've already chatted about John, my brother, and Lestrade. I do imagine she'll be quite like a mother to you… Although you'll have to forgive her, seeing as sometimes she can be a bit..."

That night, as Sherlock sat murmuring softly to his baby daughter, the detective couldn't help but smile to himself at the thought of John in the other room, and at the comfort of knowing that when he returned, the doctor's reassuring form would still be asleep in his bed, providing the comfort he'd so desperately needed that night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! That got a bit sappy at the end, didn't it? Sorry for all those who aren't a big fan of sap! I'm also sorry if it got a little OOC at the end, as well… However, I really do hope that this situation pleases both Johnlock and non-Johnlock lovers. I don't plan to bring any sexual aspect into their relationship at all. I like this sort of platonic idea of Sherlock's and John's relationship, and I hope I've accurately displayed that! =) Thank you so much everyone! And I do hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I would very much appreciate some feedback on whether or not this kind of relationship works for everyone. I'm afraid I've never written anything like this before. =P Thank you SO much guys for your wonderful support! I hope everyone has a great weekend!
> 
> And there will be some more m-preg soon! =)


	16. A Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Okay, so I sincerely apologize for the delay in updates. School is crazy. But, I now have a pretty clear plan of what I want to have happen in the next few chapters. A little bit of introductory plot in this chapter for you, but mostly it's just some fluff. I was going to add a bit more, but it probably would have taken a few more days, so I just thought I'd update sooner with a shorter chapter. Once again: so sorry! But seriously, I have been amazed by the support this story has received and I truly cannot thank everyone enough. Thank you so much guys for being so supportive and I hope everyone likes this little fluffy chapter while I work on the other ones. I hope to have those up soon, seeing as I pretty much have a clear idea of where I want them to go. =)

Sherlock sat in his chair the next morning, still rocking Lyla back and forth, allowing himself to explore his thoughts.

After that night, when John had so willingly shared his bed to ease his worries, Sherlock had wondered—worried, even—that this new, unexplored physical element would upset the friendship they'd spent years perfecting. But, the next morning, Sherlock saw John pad out of his room with a yawn, rubbing at his neck. The doctor paused in the entryway to the sitting room, his gaze traveling to Lyla, whom the detective realized, was sound asleep on his chest, cooing softly in her sleep. It was when the doctor smiled at the scene and chuckled, "Coffee?" that Sherlock knew everything would be just fine. There would be no awkward questions, no unusual inquires about where things would be going from there. Because there was already a mutual understanding that what had happened the previous night was not even a change in their friendship. It was just an addition to the crazy that already was their lives.

"Mmm, here you go, mate. Black as can be, two sugars," John yawned as he padded back into the sitting room, two mugs in hand.

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked graciously as he was passed a cup, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was.

"Yeah."

Careful to hold his mug of steaming coffee far away from his daughter's sleeping form, Sherlock tucked her head under the left side of his jaw so he would be able to more easily drink his beverage. "Mmm," the detective hummed as he took a sip of the hot liquid. "I'm not sure I ever truly realized how positively wonderful caffeine is until I had to go nine months without it," he murmured to himself.

"I'll bet," John chuckled, taking a drink from his own mug. "Were you up the whole night?"

"Yes. Though it was mostly my own fault. She fell asleep soon after, but—per the ususal—my mind kept me up. And it's rather nice having her here." Sherlock gestured to Lyla with his silver gaze.

"Quite right." Settling into the cushions of his own chair, John continued to sip his coffee, gazing at his two flat mates. The doctor suddenly realized how terribly small Lyla's already-little form looked when resting atop Sherlock's long, lean torso.

"Has she seemed fussy to you lately?" Sherlock asked suddenly, fingers curling gracefully around the handle of his mug while he absentmindedly brushed just a few inches of skin across Lyla's head.

John contemplated. "Perhaps a little. Sometimes newborns can have some stomach problems in the first few weeks. It's possible she's experiencing that. Unfortunately, there's really no way to know." The doctor shrugged sadly. "They can't tell us. Ear aches and infections are also a possibility. If she seems to calm down the next time you have her upright, it's possible she's having some ear aches, as there is more pressure when babies lay on their backs. Oh. But she's probably just been fussy," John added quickly upon seeing how mortified Sherlock now appeared to be. His knuckles had turned white where they were gripping the mug. "Are you alright?" John asked with a chuckle.

"That just seems terribly unfair," Sherlock mumbled with a frown.

"What's that?"

"The fact that she has no way of expressing what she's feeling." Relaxing just slightly, Sherlock took a pensive sip of his coffee. A frown still on his lips, however, the detective glanced down towards Lyla, whose fingers were curling and uncurling against the fabric of his shirt, as if attempting to get a grip on it. The frown soon melted into a fond smile. "Mmm." Without even thinking about it, Sherlock set a tender hand atop Lyla's back and began running several slender fingers up and down the length of her tiny spine. He turned his attention back to John, who had pursed his lips into a knowing smile, and was purposefully gazing out the window. "What?"

"Oh, nothing."

"John."

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"John," Sherlock huffed with an eyeroll, "what?"

"You're just..." John twirled his cup in both hands, purposefully avoiding eye contact with his flat mate, though the playful smile was clear on his lips. "You're so different with her... You big softie."

Another eyeroll. "Please, John. I am no such thing."

John merely smirked.

"Oh, shut up."

 

 

 

 

For a while, it seemed as if Sherlock had forgotten about the case that had caused him so much upset just the night before. But, as John discovered that evening, his fears would have been preferred to what ended up happening.

John had seen Sherlock throw himself into cases; had seen the detective completely immerse himself in solving the mystery. But with this case—the one involving a missing child—John knew there was more motiving his friend than just the thrill of the chase. The doctor knew that Sherlock had allowed for something completely rare to happen. Emotion. The detective had split his love for mystery down the middle and had let his emotions slide into the other empty half—something the doctor knew could drive his friend to extreme measures. John physically shivered upon recalling the memories of Reichenbach, another instance where Sherlock had been motived by emotions. And had committed suicide. Or so he was led to believe.

It wasn't until the second day of working on the missing chid case, however, that John realized just how deeply Sherlock had immersed himself; each time he would make an attempt to tend to Lyla in the middle of the night when she would cry, the doctor would find Sherlock—laptop or case file in hand—had already fetched her.

It was on the third day, of which it was also the third day Sherlock had not eaten nor gotten any sleep, that John became truly worried.

"I'm so close, John," Sherlock muttered from where he was seated on the couch, allowing Lyla to tug and pull at his button-up while he waited for her to tire out so she could be put down for the night. "I just need more facts." The detective made a grab for his laptop.

"No." A deep frown creasing his features, John left his chair and snatched the computer from his flat mate. "No more. Sherlock, look at you." The doctor gestured loosely to his friend's seated form, heaving sigh when the detective looked no different than usual. "You need a break."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. "I'm so close, John. I just need a few more—"

"No." Keeping the laptop in one hand, John took a seat next to his flat mate. "No more, Sherlock." The doctor held his flat mate's silvery gaze. "No more," he repeated, more softly. "It's time for a break. For sleep and food."

Lips parted just slightly, Sherlock returned his flat mate's gaze. He could feel his mind still racing with all the unexplored possibilities. But it was when he felt the doctor's hand on his back, urging him to listen, that Sherlock allowed himself the one thing he'd been terrified to do for the last three days. He stopped thinking. "Oh," he breathed when everything halted to a frantic stop in his mind, now feeling the pull of everything he'd missed the past few days. Hunger, exhaustion. Guilt. The detective took a breath. "Thank you, John," he whispered, not noticing when he pressed Lyla ever so slightly closer to his chest, cradling her tiny head in the palm of his hand. "I... Ahem. You have my sincerest apologies. I admit I got a bit... carried away."

"Yeah," John chuckled in agreement. "You did." The doctor removed his hand from his flat mate's back.

"I just have such a strong desire to catch whoever did this," Sherlock sighed in defeat, managing a small, albeit genuine smile when Lyla made a grab for his face. "Almost," he murmured, placing a tender kiss atop his daughter's nose, which in turn caused her to sneeze. Much to her apparent confusion. "My apologies, love," Sherlock laughed, a grin gracing his features.

As he watched the tension and fear slide from his friend's slender form, John visibly relaxed. "Dinner?" he asked when Sherlock turned to him, a warm smile still fresh on his lips.

"Love some," the detective responded with a coy half-smile.

Chuckling to himself and shaking his head back and forth, John stood.

"John?"

The doctor turned back to his flat mate. "Yeah, mate?" he asked softly, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"I just... Thank you. For everything." Sherlock's gaze fell to Lyla, who was now settled comfortably against his chest, snuggling against the fabric of his shirt. "None of this would be possible without you."

Knowing how much this statement meant in Sherlock's world, John returned the compliment with a smile. "The reverse is true for me, too, you know," the doctor state simply, curving his lips into a half-smile before silently excusing himself from the flat.

"Thank God for John Watson," Sherlock whispered to the silent flat.

"Mmm-ah," Lyla cooed from where she was settled against her father's chest, yawning.

Sherlock chuckled. "How about we try a bottle?"

Eyelids clearly heavy, Lyla opened her eyes, and turned a wobbly gaze upward.

A smile. "My sentiments exactly."

 

 

 

 

Thai food in hand, John returned to the flat and took the stairs up two at a time. "Sherlock?" he called upon entering an empty kitchen.

"John! John, come here!"

Frowning, the doctor set down the takeaway and hurried into the sitting room to find his flat mate practically bouncing with joy, Lyla situated—very much awake—in his arms.

"John, you must see this." Pressing a series of proud kisses to his daughter's temple, Sherlock hurried over to the doctor, several fingers holding Lyla's head up.

"What?"

"Watch, watch." Practically vibrating with excitement, Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly and then turned his attention back to Lyla. Taking a deep breath in with a grin, the detective released the few fingers supporting his daughter's neck. And, though a bit wobbly, Lyla's head remained where it was for several seconds before tilting backwards just enough to worry her father into supporting her once again.

"Isn't it brilliant, John?" Sherlock declared with a grin, the elation clear in his voice while he beamed at Lyla, who—while confused—seemed to be quite enjoying all the attention, as a little smile was just barely visible on her lips.

"Yeah, it... It really is," the doctor replied, sounding just as elated. "It seems strange to say she seems to be getting so big when she's only been in the world for a month, but…"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, understanding John's silent meaning. "It's incredible." The detective pressed another, far more tender kiss to his daughter's cheek, which earned him a pleased smile. Sherlock turned back to his friend, who was still gazing at Lyla, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "Thai?" he asked with a tired smile.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Is that—"

"Perfect." Tucking Lyla close, Sherlock glided into the kitchen and retrieved the warmed bottle that had been waiting in the microwave. "Let's see if we can't tire you out, hmm? Now I've got you all wound up again."

"Maybe she'll actually sleep tonight," John chuckled sarcastically as he got out two bowls and filled them with the takeaway. "There you go."

"Mmm, thank you." Having gotten Lyla situated in such a way so that he could feed and hold her with one arm, freeing the other one to eat, Sherlock placed the bottle to her lips and then tucked into his own meal.

Smiling, John caught his friend's attention and then nodded to Lyla.

Sherlock turned and glanced at his daughter, and couldn't help but smile at the way her tiny eyelids were sagging and how with each pull, her eyes would roll back ever so slightly. "Go on, it's alright, love," Sherlock urged softly, setting his fork down in his now-empty bowl.

Obeying, Lyla finally allowed for her eyes to fall shut. When, after she had stopped drinking from the bottle for several moments, Sherlock carefully pulled it from the baby girl's lips, smiling at the way her lips still continued to purse back and forth. "I'm going to go put her down," the detective whispered gesturing with a small nod of his head to Lyla's sleeping form.

"Alright."

Sherlock stood.

"But…"

The detective turned back to his friend.

"You're to go to bed, as well… And no getting up tonight. I'll take care of her. Doctor's orders."

An eyeroll. "I'm not a child, John."

"Quite right," John agreed with a raised brow. "You're an adult. And as such, should be acting like one. That includes rest."

Contradicting himself, Sherlock once again rolled his eyes and released a silent huff of breath. "Very well," he muttered after a few moments of contemplation. Mumbling to himself, Sherlock padded into his room, ignoring the pull on his eyelids when he was met with warm darkness. "I would greatly appreciate you sleeping tonight," he whispered upon reaching Lyla's cot. "As would John, I think it's safe to say."

Lyla whined softly in her sleep. Sherlock pressed her closer. "It's alright, love," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek with the corner of his lips. "I merely asked for more sleep… for the both of us. Mmm. Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight." Several kisses later, Sherlock carefully lowered his daughter into the cot, and then covered the little girl's tiny form with a blanket. "Let's hope this works for us tonight, hmm?" Sherlock asked, setting his large hand atop Lyla's stomach. The detective was referring to the stomach problems John had guessed she was having. Over the last few days, they had determined that the problems seemed to be far worse at night, due to the length of time Lyla was set on her back. "Hmm. Goodnight, love. Feel better." Removing his hand, Sherlock silently slipped from his room, grabbing the baby monitor on his way out. When he ducked into the kitchen to find it empty, the detective assumed his friend had gone upstairs and called it a night.

Fingers curling gracefully around the baby monitor, Sherlock padded over to the couch, allowing himself several exhausted yawns. Out of habit, the detective threw himself into the familiar cushions and then rolled over onto his back. Forcing his mind not to travel to the case, Sherlock set the baby monitor atop his chest and then pressed his fingertips to his lips. The detective suddenly realized he could hear each of Lyla's breaths floating through the end of the monitor on his chest. Smiling at the sound, Sherlock rolled into the back of the cushions and closed his eyes.

 

 

 

 

"Sherlock, do you..." John started as he entered the sitting room, now dressed in a pair of pajamas. The doctor stopped, however, upon seeing Sherlock, his lanky form practically curled into a ball on the couch. John soon realized the detective had fallen asleep. "Oh... Finally. And about time, too. Stubborn git." Chuckling, John found a blanket and quickly draped it over his friend's skinny form. "There you go mate," he whispered, gently patting the detective on the arm. "Sleep well... Goodness knows you deserve it." Taking a deep breath, John allowed his fingers to slide from his flat mate's arm. "You git," he added with a playful smile before padding back upstairs to his room.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Baby monitor still wrapped tightly in his fingers, the detective curled further into the comfort of the cool cushions and allowed himself to slide into the darkness of sleep.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a groan, having heard Lyla's cries over the baby monitor. Rolling off the couch he'd fallen asleep on with a yawn, the detective took a few moments to rub at his eyes and ruffle his unruly hair. As he opened his eyes, Sherlock suddenly realized it was nearly morning. "Oh," he sighed with a frown, realizing he'd slept far longer than he'd intended. Lyla's cries once again crackled through the baby monitor that he realized was clutched in his hand. "Alright, alright. I hear you… I hear you."

Not bothering to snatch his robe, the detective padded towards his bedroom, wondering if at all, how many times John had tended to Lyla the night before while he slept. Now able to hear his daughter's cries through his room's open door, Sherlock padded over to Lyla's cot. "What's the matter, my darling?" he asked as he leaned into the cot and pulled his daughter's crying form out. Knowing Lyla was probably still experiencing stomach pains, Sherlock was eager to soothe his daughter in any way he could. The detective found he had developed a strong opposition to knowing his daughter was in pain, yet he could do nothing to stop it. He had also determined that such an opposition made him try even harder to ease any discomfort.

"I'm here Lyla," the detective rumbled, tucking the baby girl's small body close.

Now upright and free from the pressure of lying on her back, Lyla's cries slowly subsided to occasional little whines and snuffles, though it was clear she was still uncomfortable.

"I know," Sherlock whispered, resting the curve of his sharp cheekbone against his daughter's temple. "It was quite rude of us, wasn't it? Bringing you into this bright, big world. I mean, I suppose that technically you have quite a right to cry for feeling poorly, seeing as everything you experience you're quite literally feeling for the first time." A chuckle. "Poor thing."

Lyla merely snuffled in response and continued to rub her tear-stained cheeks back and forth against her father's chest.

"I am sorry, darling. Here. Let's see if we can't do something about your stomach, hmm?" Lyla's small head cradled in his palm, Sherlock sat on his bed and then, after making a little mound of sheets and pillows, set the baby girl atop them. After pressing his lips to Lyla's forehead, the detective gently pulled off her little baby grow, leaving her only in a nappy, seeing how warm she felt.

Not quite able to determine whether or not she was happy with the current situation, Lyla swung her little arms about in a haphazard manner that made Sherlock smile.

"Come along, now, it's not that bad," the detective chuckled. Wrapping one of his large hands around Lyla's, the detective used the other to rub soothing circles around the soft skin of her belly. "There we go," he whispered, voice just a soft rumble.

Now, almost as if confused, and with her little arms still waving this way and that, Lyla snuffled sadly and then turned her watery gaze to her father, as if wondering why he was rubbing circles around her stomach. Eventually, however, it was clear the little girl determined she was content with the situation and she dropped her arms, allowing one of her little hands to rest atop the hand her father had on her stomach.

"There we go," Sherlock whispered, gazing sadly into his daughter's watery eyes. He noticed how tired she looked, and guessed she had gotten even less sleep than usual.

"Poor thing."

Sherlock nearly jumped upon hearing John's voice behind him. The detective turned around to find the doctor leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "How many times?"

"More than usual." Rubbing at his jaw, and the stubble presiding there, John padded over to Sherlock's bed and sat down on the other side of Lyla.

"Thank you."

"Mmm," John hummed in acknowledgement. "Poor thing," he repeated.

Sherlock frowned sadly in agreement. When Lyla's eyelids began to droop, the detective ever so gently scooped the baby girl into his arms and, cradling her small form in the crook of his arms, began to gently rock back and forth until Lyla's small body went limp.

"Look at what you did, Sherlock," John murmured, eyes on Lyla's sleeping form, curled against Sherlock's alabaster skin.

The detective smiled, one of the rare, genuine half-smiles that meant he was flattered. "What we did, John."

A smile. "Right..."

A pensive purse of his cupid's bow lips. "You know," Sherlock murmured, as he gazed down at his sleeping daughter, "I'm not entirely certain that I wouldn't mind another one," he stated matter-of-factly and with another purse of his lips. The detective nearly laughed aloud upon seeing the look on his flat mate's face.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

"Shh!"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" the doctor repeated in a loud whisper. "You've just had one! She's brand-new!" John declared softly, gesturing to Lyla.

Chuckling deeply to himself, Sherlock shook his head. "Not now, of course... I don't know." The detective smiled. "She's just so perfect."

"Yeah, well... One step at a time, mate," John sighed. He looked as if he might faint.

Sherlock laughed softly. "Right." He pressed a kiss to Lyla's temple. "One step at a time."


	17. Growing Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay… So, I may or may not have rewritten this chapter three or four times. XD But, I've finally gotten my ideas together and this is the result. I also have a loose plan as to where the story is going to go from here, so that's certainly a plus as well! =) Due to the wait between updates, I just kept writing and writing for this chapter, so it is a bit long. Also, I hope this chapter is able to satisfy those who wanted more baby Lyla time and those who did not. =)
> 
> Anyway, so I rather apologize for the many different scenes happening in this chapter, but I really wanted to give you guys something, and I'm quite anxious to get on with the next bit. =)
> 
> Once again, my apologies for the wait (per the norm!), but I do hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who is still following and reviewing!
> 
> Thank you so much guys, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! (Sorry for so much going on at once!)
> 
> P.S. Please excuse the many errors you will find in this chapter. Thank you everyone!

It would take several days before the breakthrough in the case John and Sherlock were wishing for finally displayed itself.

"Goodbye," Sherlock whispered bittersweetly as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and kissed Lyla atop the nose. "Be back soon." The detective reluctantly passed his daughter's sleeping form into Molly's waiting arms. "Now, then, you do remember her schedule, yes?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"You're sure?"

The pathologist chuckled. "Quite."

Sherlock's brows knit together worriedly.

"Promise," Molly reassured with a smile.

"Sherlock. She'll be fine," John reassured with a nod towards the doorway, indicating they needed to go.

"Right… We both have our mobiles, Molly, should anything go wrong."

"Of course. But nothing is going to go wrong. We'll both be right here when you get back."

With a terse nod of his head, and a quick glance towards his sleeping daughter, Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way down the stairs, John close behind.

 

 

 

"Are you sure of yourself?" John asked tentatively as he sat in the police car, behind Lestrade and next to his flat mate. Along with an ambulance, and several of the police squad, John, Sherlock, and Lestrade were headed to an abandoned building, the site they hoped contained the kidnapper and, with even more luck, the kidnapped child.

"Absolutely," Sherlock answered firmly.

John noticed the way his friend's cupid's bow lips pressed themselves into a thin line. "Right, then," he whispered, turning his gaze to the window. The doctor could see out of the corner of his eyes as Sherlock's fingers ticked nervously against his thighs.

It took about 20 minutes to arrive at the decrepit old building. John gazed at the structure as their car pulled up. Though it was nighttime, the doctor could clearly see the poor state the building was in; with sections of the roof missing and cinder blocks growing with ivy, it was a frightening sight.

"Right, then," Lestrade sighed, turning back to gaze at John and Sherlock. "Ready, then?"

John turned to his flat mate.

Chest rising and falling with a deep breath, Sherlock laced his hands into one another and nodded.

It would take only a few minutes of searching to find the room that had been holding the kidnapper. Just about to duck into the room Lestrade and his team had stormed into, John noticed Sherlock was running even further down the hallway. "Sherlock! He's in here, we've found him!"

"He won't hold the child with him!" Sherlock called back over his shoulder. "He'll be in a separate room." Coat billowing behind him, and not waiting for John, who he knew would be following him, Sherlock sped down the dark hallway of the abandoned building, peering into each empty room until he was nearly at the end. Glancing into another dank room, the detective came to a halting stop upon seeing a small bundle in the corner. "He's in here, John," Sherlock called quietly over his shoulder to John, hoping he wouldn't further upset the child.

Returning his attention to the little bundle, Sherlock took a careful step into the room. "Timothy?" he whispered, uttering the child's name aloud for the first time since receiving the case; the detective had not wished to use the little boy's real name, because doing so would have made the horror of the situation all the more real. "Timothy, my name is Sherlock. I'm here to help you," Sherlock continued tenderly. The detective paused when the little bundle moved and he was met with two bright blue eyes.

Lips parted just slightly, Sherlock crouched down and tucked his lengthy coat back and underneath him. "Hello, Timothy," he whispered once again, now at eye level with the little boy. The detective's keen eyes raked over Timothy's small form; over the layers of dirt covering his arms and tattered clothes; over his little form, curled inward, with his arms hugging his legs. "Hello…"

John watched silently from the doorway, studying his flat mate. The doctor was once again amazed by this hidden side to his friend, this side which he'd just recently discovered even existed. John could see as lines of tenderness and reassurance danced over Sherlock's sculpted face; those silver-blue eyes, so often cold and disapproving, were now full of gentleness and kindness. The thought nearly made John smile. He returned his attention to the scene.

"Timothy," Sherlock began in a whisper, "we've come to take you home. Back to your Mummy and Daddy." A small, hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips when Timothy's form relaxed and he lifted his head ever so slightly.

"Mummy?" the little boy whispered, voice impossibly small. Sherlock felt a strong twinge in his chest upon hearing how hoarse and broken Timothy's little voice sounded. Screaming. "Yes, Timothy," Sherlock reassured with a smile. The detective offered a hand and then slowly scooted closer until Timothy's form was just barely in reach. "May I?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Sniffling, and quite clearly losing trust in the strange man who'd claimed he would get to see his mother once again, Timothy whimpered and, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks, squirmed out of Sherlock's grasp.

Quickly recoiling his hand, Sherlock's gaze saddened once again. "I'm sorry, Timothy," he whispered before quickly reaching forward and gathering the little boy into his arms.

Now screaming with what little voice he had left, Timothy flung his arms this way and that, desperately attempting to escape from Sherlock's grasp.

Hoping the little boy would once again trust him, Sherlock wrapped the folds of his coat around Timothy's little, nearly-bare body and, after pressing him close, set his chin atop the little boy's head. "You're safe, Timothy," he whispered, stroking several fingers through the tiny boy's curly hair. "Please trust me."

Sobs shuddering to a halt, and with tears still fresh on his cheeks, Timothy turned his watery gaze to Sherlock's.

"You're safe," the detective reassured with a smile. "I promise."

Bottom lip quivering just slightly, Timothy's little face crumpled and, allowing exhaustion to get the better of him, the little boy wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and tucked his head against the detective's shoulder. "Mummy," he sniffled, tiny little voice quivering.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock glanced to John and nodded. "Yes, Timothy. Yes." Just barely pressing the corner of his lips to the little boy's temple, Sherlock ran his hand up and down the length of Timothy's spine, pleased when he felt the little boy finally allow him to carry all his weight. "There we go."

"Ready?" John whispered.

Sherlock responded with a firm nod of his head. Hugging Timothy's tiny form close, Sherlock placed a single hand to the back of the little boy's head and, following swiftly after John, toted the little boy out of the building and into one of the waiting squad cars.

"Is he asleep?" John asked once they were all seated safely inside. Sherlock merely nodded in response. "My God… Look at him." Frowning, John leaned over and placed a hand atop the little boy's back. The doctor turned his gaze to his flat mate to find him staring forward, an almost pained expression creasing his sharp features. "Sherlock?"

"We did it," the detective whispered. "We found him."

John smiled sadly. "Yes, Sherlock. Yes we did."

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade sat in the Detective Inspector's office while they waited for Timothy's parents to arrive. Said little boy, who had since awoken, still remained wrapped tightly in the detective's arms. Little hands clinging tightly to Sherlock's button-up, the small boy's blue eyes travelled warily around the office, clearly trying to decide what he thought of John and Lestrade. His gaze quickly flitted to the doorway when John, who had gone to fetch a damp towel, returned.

"Mmm," the little boy groaned, pressing closer to Sherlock's chest.

"It's alright," the detective reassured with a pat. "That's just John. He's here to help."

"Hello, little one," the doctor greeted with a smile. "I've just come to clean you up just a tad," he added gently. "Is that alright?"

Glancing warily at the damp cloth in John's hand, Timothy—grip tightening on Sherlock's shirt—glanced up at the detective. Sherlock smiled reassuringly in response. Timothy returned his gaze to John and, after a moment's pause, nodded.

"There's a good chap. Now, I'm just going to press this to your cheek, alright?" A nod. "Excellent." Kneeling down, John leaned forward and pressed the damp cloth to Timothy's cheek. Moving slowly so as not to upset the little boy, the doctor gently ran the fabric up and down Timothy's skin, cleaning away the layers of dirt and grime caked there. John found he was actually quite pleased with himself upon finding that Timothy had fallen asleep, his little mouth having gone slack.

"Is he asleep?" Sherlock rumbled.

"Hmm. Thank God."

Sherlock chuckled dryly. "Quite."

 

 

 

By the time Timothy's parents finally arrived, the little boy was still asleep, and wrapped safely in Sherlock's arms. After passing the little boy to Donovan, Sherlock silently excused himself, and John quickly followed. The two flat mates sat in silence during the car ride home, each staring out their respective windows. As the cab rolled up outside 221B, Sherlock unlaced the fingers that had been previously resting in his lap, and followed John out of the car. "Poor Molly," John mumbled as he pulled out his keys and unlocked the door.

"Mmm. Indeed. No knowing what Lyla might have done," Sherlock rumbled, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

Chuckling, John pushed open the door to the flat and then began to softly tread up the stairs. Upon reaching the landing, the doctor turned back to his flat mate and gestured in a way that implied Sherlock was to be quiet. "Molly's fallen asleep," he mouthed.

A quirk at the corner of lips. "Lyla?" he mouthed, following suit.

Padding further into the room, John peered into the makeshift crib that had now found residence in the corner of the sitting room. "Sound asleep." John could see the way Sherlock's fingers twitched at his sides, quite literally itching to see his daughter. "You get Lyla, I'll thank Molly."

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked gratefully.

It was only when the detective glided gracefully past him that John noticed the dark grey circles taking residence under his eyes. Ignoring his worry, the doctor watched as Sherlock bent into the crib, carefully cradling Lyla as he pulled her little form from the cot.

"Ah, good evening, love," Sherlock murmured with a smile, allowing Lyla to rest along the length of his forearm, with her head cradled in his hand. John watched with a smile as the detective padded away into his room.

Smiling, the doctor turned to Molly's sleeping form and gently shook her shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

After having tried—and failed—to fall asleep for several hours, John rolled out of his bed and went downstairs in search of something to occupy his mind. The doctor glanced down the hallway upon reaching the landing, expecting to find his flat mate's door closed. When he saw it was open, John padded down the hallway and peered inside. "Can't sleep?" he asked upon finding Sherlock, seated on the edge of his bed, gazing into Lyla's cot.

"Mmm," the detective sighed with a roll of his eyes. "The usual."

"Ah," John chuckled in agreement. "Care for some company?" The doctor cringed upon realizing what it sounded like he'd said.

"You know, I think I would," Sherlock murmured as if in a daze, having clearly missed John's accidental double entendre. The detective patted the space next to him, which John soon occupied. "It seems so strange."

"What's that?"

"We've done something incredibly good, and yet… all I feel is…" A breath. "Numb."

John hummed sadly in agreement. "Yeah, I know. But it'll get better. I promise."

"You sound as if you speak from experience."

"I do."

Sherlock released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Right. Of course. Apologies."

"It's okay."

Sherlock ran several fingers through his rumpled curls. "I just…" The detective began to drum nervously on his leg with slender fingers. "I can't imagine what his parents must have been feeling! What possibly could have been running through their minds. John, we've dealt with dozens of children's cases before, but never have I been so affected by one as I have this."

"It's because you're a parent now."

"But it's fogging my brain, John, making me emotionally attached—"

"Which isn't a bad thing," John reassured, setting a hand on his flat mate's leg.

"Why, John? I'm trying to understand," Sherlock muttered, casting a gentle glance towards Lyla.

"It makes you a better person, Sherlock. I can almost guarantee you that, previous to Lyla, you would never have acted the way you did around Timothy. You made him feel safe. And by my judgements, that is not a bad thing."

Blinking slowly, Sherlock's gaze softened. "I suppose so," he murmured eventually. "Thank you, John."

Smiling, the doctor replied with a smile, "Sure… Now, then. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt to go back to bed."

Sherlock chuckled in agreement. "Hmm… You'd be more than welcome in here," he added with a kind quirk of his lips.

Having determined long ago he would never understand the many different elements of his friend, John simply nodded in response.

"Thank you, John Watson."

 

 

 

 

 

Several months later, Sherlock sat in his chair, Lyla seated atop his crossed legs, playing with his large fingers. The detective sat with one hand supporting her back and neck, so as to prevent her wobbly form from tumbling backward.

"Coffee?" John called from the kitchen.

"Please," Sherlock called back, chuckling when Lyla started slightly and then blinked confusedly at him. "Not you, my love. Apologies."

Once again content, but now no longer interested in her father's fingers, Lyla released Sherlock's large hand from her little grasp. "Hm-mah," she hummed to herself as she gazed at the detective.

Sherlock watched, lips quirking at the corners as Lyla gazed intently at him. The detective had come to notice that his daughter seemed to have inherited the same intensity with which he, himself studied the objects—and people—around him. "Hello," he murmured with a smile, wondering what his baby daughter thought when she gazed him.

"Mmm," Lyla hummed, haphazardly reaching a hand in front of her, as if she wished to reach out.

Lending his help, Sherlock tilted his head forward just slightly, pressing his lips to his daughter's palm. The detective felt a warm flutter in his stomach upon seeing the way Lyla's lips curled up at the corners.

Sherlock watched in mild amusement, cataloging each movement, as Lyla took her little hands and pressed them to each of his cheeks.

"Mmm," the little girl hummed as she haphazardly ran her fingers over her father's sharp cheekbones. A joyous grin suddenly danced over the baby girl's lips.

"What?" Sherlock laughed beneath his daughter's touch. "I know I've not got the most conventional look about me, but surely it cannot be that bad." The detective's gaze softened as he felt each of Lyla's little fingernails scratching gently against his skin.

More than glad to momentarily forget the case he had been previously working on, Sherlock waited patiently while Lyla seemed to examine his face; spreading her little fingers over his eyelids, lips, and chin. The detective closed his eyes when Lyla, giggling airily to herself, haphazardly wrapped her little arms around the front of his face, effectively giving him a hug. "Oh, thank you love," he chuckled beneath his daughter's arms.

"Hm-mah." Smiling contently to herself, Lyla released Sherlock from her small grasp. "Dah," she giggled with a smile, once again placing each little hand on her father's sharp cheekbones.

Sherlock felt as if his heart had practically stalled to a stop in his chest. "What did you say?" he rumbled softly.

Lyla merely giggled airily in response. Now once again content, the baby girl set her head against the dip just below her father's shoulder and, snuggling against the detective's chest, wrapped her small fingers around the collar of his button-up.

A smile on his lips, Sherlock settled his hand atop Lyla's back. The detective's eyes travelled to the doorway to find John entering, a mug in each hand.

"There you are."

"Ah. Thank you." The detective's gaze travelled to his flat mate's sneakers. "Are you working today, then?"

"What?" John's gaze fell to his feet. "Oh. Yeah. One of the other GP's went home sick, so I volunteered to fill in."

Sherlock nodded, returning his attention to Lyla, who, having caught sight of John, was attempting to squirm her way out of her father's arms and into the doctor's. "I do believe she wants you," Sherlock chuckled. Mug in hand, the detective stood and passed his daughter's little form to his flat mate.

"Well, hello there," John laughed, pressing a kiss to Lyla's temple. "Finally got tired of him, did we?"

Scoffing, Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. "Insufferable," he muttered into his mug.

A smile on his lips, John sat on the couch and waited patiently while Lyla got situated on his lap. Eventually, the baby girl concluded she was more interested in the doctor's jumper than anything, and soon busied herself by playing with the soft fabric. John grinned smugly at his flat mate, who merely rolled his eyes and then ducked away into the kitchen. "Nevermind your father," John chuckled, pulling Lyla's attention from his jumper. "He's just a bit of a spoil sport, isn't he?"

Lyla merely giggled happily in response before returning her attention to the doctor's jumper.

 

 

 

 

 

"Right, then. I'm sorry my love, but I'm afraid I must go off to work. Which means I have to pass you back to your father," John explained to Lyla before exchanging a playful glance with his flat mate.

"Oh please," Sherlock sighed with an eye roll. "She loves me."

Pressing his lips into a hidden smile, John detangled Lyla's little fingers from his jumper and passed the baby girl to Sherlock.

"Ah, thank you." Settling Lyla against the dip in his waist, Sherlock pressed a brief kiss to her cheek. The detective felt a slight triumphant flutter in his chest upon noticing the way Lyla instantly settled against his form; the way her small hand automatically grasped the fabric covering his back. "Right, then." Sherlock turned his attention back to John, who was pulling on his jacket. "Well, I… hope you have a good day, then," the detective mumbled, trying the domestic words out on his lips.

After concluding he did not quite like the feel of the words on his lips, Sherlock waved his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

John smirked. "You too, you two," he chuckled, grabbing his keys. The doctor leaned in close to Lyla, where she was being held in Sherlock's arms. "Keep him out of trouble for me, yes?"

"Mmm," Lyla giggled bashfully, tucking her head under her father's jaw.

"Excellent." John pressed a kiss to his little flat mate's cheek, smiling when she grabbed ahold of his face and returned the kiss with an open-mouthed one of her own.

"Ah, thank you, Lyla. But, I'm afraid I must really be off. Am I bringing food back? Sherlock… Sherlock!"

"Oh. What?"

"Am I bringing food back tonight?"

"Oh. Yes, if you would."

Chuckling at his flat mate, John grabbed his keys, and, after a brief goodbye, made his way down the stairs.

"Finally. Now then," Sherlock whispered playfully upon hearing the door to the flat shut, "we have some cases to work on, don't we? Yes, hmm?" Grinning warmly, Sherlock tickled his daughter's stomach with his fingertips, pleased when it sent the baby girl into a fit of giggles.

Toting Lyla on his hip, Sherlock trodded into the kitchen, and then sat down at the table, setting his daughter atop his legs. Keeping one hand wrapped firmly around her middle, Sherlock snatched two of the many folders spread about the tabletop. Holding them in front of Lyla, the detective raised his eyebrows. "Which do you think, hmm?"

Glancing—rather confusedly—between the two folders, Lyla's blue eyes glanced back and forth before, having clearly made up her mind, she pressed her little hands to the front of one with a giggle.

"Excellent choice. Now, then, we can being to examine the no doubt rather pathetic details Lestrade will have managed to scrounge…" As Sherlock glanced at Lyla, he could practically hear John, sitting across from the table, scolding him. Really, Sherlock? A case?

Sherlock turned his gaze back to Lyla, who was staring curiously up at him, one of her own hands resting atop his much larger one. "Oh… fine." Heaving a sigh, the detective set the case files on the table and shoved them away. "Very well. I suppose we should do something more…" An eyeroll and uninterested wave of his fingers. "Interesting."

Laughing delightedly to herself, Lyla wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck as he stood and snuggled close to the warm skin residing there. "Mmm."

"Right, then… I suppose reading is a common activity a parent does with a child… Yes?" Reaching under the couch, Sherlock pulled out the children's books he'd shoved under there when John first brought them home. "Right..." Situating himself so he was sitting parallel to the sofa, Sherlock stretched his legs out so his toes were touching the other end and then set Lyla in his lap.

Grabbing her toes and tucking her feet close, the baby girl rolled back until she was leaning against her father's chest.

"Now, then..." Raising a disdainful brow, Sherlock opened the book to the first page and extended it in front of both himself and his daughter. "Let's see..." Heaving a sigh, the detective began to read.

 

 

 

 

 

John returned home from hospital to be welcomed by a silent flat. Unnerved by the lack of noise, the doctor quickly made his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He peeked in the kitchen upon reaching the landing and then, finding it empty, turned to the sitting room. John breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing Sherlock, long limbs splayed about the couch, dressed in his robe, sound asleep with Lyla also slumbering atop his chest.

Brows tugged together, John glanced around the sitting room to find it in a state of disarray, children's books scattered everywhere. The doctor smiled triumphantly to himself. Sherlock had been reading to Lyla. John, leaning against the doorway, turned his gaze back to his slumbering flat mates and noticed Sherlock's slender fingers twitched slightly where they were resting atop Lyla's back. "You stubborn git."

Tired from his long day, and feeling rather too lazy to climb the stairs to his own room, John kicked off his converse and made his way into Sherlock's room.

Due to their rather unconventional and newly-developed relationship, John had become quite accustomed to the feel of Sherlock's bed, as he shared it with the detective often now. The doctor had actually found he preferred his flat mate's room to his own, which was to become Lyla's nursery anyway, as both he and Sherlock had agreed they did not like the thought of the baby girl having a room downstairs.

Heaving a sigh, the detective fell into Sherlock's bed, rolling into the dip in the other side that had just begun to form, given the frequency with which he had been spending the night in his flat mate's room lately.

Several hours later, John awoke with a start, not realizing he'd fallen asleep, to the feel of Sherlock rolling into bed next to him.

Groaning softly, the doctor curled into himself, grabbing a pillow and tucking it under his head. "What time is it?" he asked, keeping his eyes closed.

"Late," Sherlock replied quietly, settling on his back. The detective reached to his right and clicked on the baby monitor resting atop his side table.

"Lyla?"

"Asleep."

"Mmm… I take it she enjoyed the books?" John asked with a smirk, still keeping his back turned to his flat mate. The doctor could practically feel Sherlock's glare boring holes into the back of his head. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Insufferable."

"Probably. Goodnight, Sherlock."

Muttering under his breath, Sherlock wrapped his robe further around himself and then rolled away from John, kicking away the sheets covering his feet. Checking to make sure the monitor light was on, the detective closed his eyes, ignoring the smile he could feel on John's lips.

 

 

 

 

"John! John, it's happening, get in here!" A huff of breath. "Oh, dear Lord! John Watson! Lyla's walking, get in here!"

"What?" John called from the kitchen. Having just exited the shower, the doctor was clothed only in a bath robe. Setting down the coffee he'd been sipping, the doctor hurried into the sitting room to find Sherlock, crouched down on the ground, his mobile grasped between his fingers, grinning madly as he filmed. John turned his attention to Lyla, who was situated a few feet away from Sherlock, wobbling on her feet, small hands propping up her small form against the side of John's chair.

"You're doing beautifully, Lyla," Sherlock cheered gently, grinning at his baby daughter.

John couldn't help but grin at the childish wonder filling his flat mate's form; it was blatantly clear Sherlock was a first-time parent.

Mumbling worriedly to herself, Lyla threw a teary glance back towards her father.

"You're doing beautifully," Sherlock repeated with a smile. The detective set his mobile on the ground, and stretched his arms out, just a few inches away from his daughter's little form. "You can do it," he encouraged, raising a fond brow.

Mumbling to herself, Lyla released John's chair with a single hand, instantly returning it when she wobbled back and forth.

"Lyla, love, I promise… I'll catch you if you fall," Sherlock reassured softly.

Bottom lip wobbling slightly, Lyla angled her body so that should she fall forward, she would fall straight into her father's hold. Heaving a breath, and puffing out her cheeks as she did so, the little girl pushed away from the side of John's chair. Clearly pleased with herself, Lyla grinned and glanced down at her feet, as if amazed she was holding herself up.

"That's it! That's it, Lyla! This way, love…" Sherlock watched, grinning madly, as Lyla took several haphazard steps towards his outstretched fingers. The detective felt something soar in his chest upon watching his daughter's face brighten with a smile of pure exhalation as she slowly, and haphazardly, made her way towards him.

"Just a few more steps!" John cheered fondly.

"That's perfect! Just… Yes, just like that, that's… Oh, Lyla, you did it!" Sherlock laughed when Lyla passed his fingertips. Laughing aloud, the detective quickly enclosed his arms around Lyla's wobbly form. Grasping his daughter around her tiny middle, which was rising and falling with elated breaths, Sherlock stood and, dancing around the sitting room, pressed many quick kisses to Lyla's nose and cheeks—much to the baby girl's delight.

"Oh that was practically brilliant, my darling! Excellent job!" Slowing to a sway, Sherlock hugged his daughter close, reveling in the feel of her little hands grasping the back of his button up. "Excellent," the detective repeated as he brushed a few hairs away from Lyla's forehead. As if exhausted by the task she'd just completed, Lyla allowed her head to flop to one side. Wrapping her small arms around Sherlock's neck, the little girl rested her head atop her father's shoulder, still grinning to herself.

"Very good job," John added with a chuckle. Making his way to the other side of his flat mate, the doctor wrapped a hand around one of Lyla's little ones and pressed a playful kiss to her forehead. "My goodness... She's growing up, Sherlock. And it's happening so fast."

Sherlock's gaze softened. "Mmm. Indeed… That, she is. Almost a year, John. It's been nearly a year." The detective absentmindedly ran a hand up and down Lyla's spine.

"As I said… fast."

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock heard the thud of his brother's umbrella on the wooden floor before he heard the government official's voice.

"Enjoying parenthood, are we, little brother?"

The detective, seated on the couch with his violin resting in his lap, and Lyla sitting next to him, rolled his eyes. "Enjoying the next war I'm sure you've started?"

A scoff. "Nonsense."

"Yes."

"Pardon?"

"In answer to your previous question: yes, I am quite enjoying parenthood." The detective's silvery gaze travelled to his left, to Lyla, who was desperately attempting to put together a small 3D puzzle. Holding his violin in place with one hand, Sherlock reached over with his other one and gently clicked a piece into place, chuckling when Lyla's concentrated expression turned to one of confusion. "Sorry, love." The detective turned his attention back to his brother, and resumed plucking the strings of the violin. "Did you need something?"

"I just thought I should get a chance to see my niece." Mycroft heaved a sigh. Glancing around, the government official propped his umbrella against John's chair, and then took a seat. "Seeing as she's nearly a year old."

"Ten months and four days to be exact," Sherlock murmured under his breath with a quirk of his lips.

Mycroft raised a brow. "Indeed. Is she speaking?"

As if on cue, Lyla, who seemed to have finished her puzzle, turned to Sherlock, the item grasped between her tiny fingers. "Dah!" she squealed, obviously quite pleased with her work.

Sherlock smirked proudly at his brother. "Indeed." He turned his attention back to Lyla. "That's positively brilliant, Lyla. Very well done," he praised, taking the little puzzle.

Lyla grinned triumphantly and then delicately set the completed puzzle in her lap. The baby girl's gaze travelled up to her uncle and a confused frown creased her little features. "Mm-dah?" she asked, pointing the government official.

"That's just your Uncle Mycroft," Sherlock explained. "He's come to pay us a visit it seems."

Bottom lip protruding just slightly, Lyla slid off the couch, with much help from Sherlock, and then crawled over to her seated uncle.

"Oh. Yes, um…" With stiff movements, Mycroft leant down and carefully lifted Lyla's little form onto his lap.

Sherlock watched carefully from where he was seated on the couch, fingers still poised over the violin strings.

"Oh. Would you like to see my tie?" Mycroft asked upon seeing the way his niece was eyeing the tan fabric.

"Mmm." Reaching forward, Lyla grasped her uncle's tie between her fingers and gave it a small tug.

Sherlock's lips quirked at the corners as he watched the intensity with which Lyla was examining the fabric in front of her. "Ah. Welcome home, John," he murmured as said doctor entered the flat, tucking his keys away in his pocket.

"Oh. Evening, Mycroft," John greeted with a nod upon seeing the government official.

"Jom!" Lyla called, having not quite mastered his name yet. Having released Mycroft's tie from her grasp, the baby girl reached towards John's form.

"Ah, hello there, little one!" John greeted with a smile. The doctor gathered Lyla into his arms and then playfully tickled her stomach, sending her into a fit of giggles. "Just paying a visit, Mycroft?" he asked, setting Lyla back in the government official's lap.

"Indeed." Mycroft, out of old habits, it seemed, placed a precautionary hand on Lyla's back. "So then," the government official sneered sarcastically as he allowed Lyla to continue twiddling with his tie, "are you already planning your next one?"

John laughed. "No, no. One is quite enough for us—"

"Yes," Sherlock stated, still plucking at his violin strings. The detective glanced up to find two sets of very wide eyes staring back at him. "What?" he asked in confusion.

John just continued to stare at him, mouth going slightly slack.

Mycroft suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. "Well, Sherlock, I must say… I never really imagined you as the family type," he drawled, glancing in amusement between his calm brother and his lesser-so flat mate. "And with that, I do believe it's best if I excuse myself. I can assume you and John now have much to talk about… Goodbye, Lyla. It was lovely to have seen you again." After pressing a brief kiss to Lyla's cheek, Mycroft stood, setting her small form on the ground. Wrapping his hand around her own, the government official guided his little niece to Sherlock.

Still staring confusedly at his flat mate, Sherlock stood and gathered Lyla into his arms.

"Good luck you two," Mycroft sneered, snatching his umbrella. The government official shot a smile towards Lyla, who returned it with a haphazard wave, and then silently let himself from the flat.

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved Lyla to his other hip. "John, if you're simply going to stare at me, Lyla and I will go eat. This is not a difficult concept to grasp." A pause. "Ugh. Fine. We'll be in the kitchen."

John watched his flat mate's retreating form. Running his hands over his face, the doctor heaved a sigh and then, as if against his will, something between a laugh and a sigh escaped his lips. A small smile creeping over his lips, the doctor pushed himself out of his chair and padded into the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

"So," John sighed dramatically as he crawled into bed, "when were you planning on telling me you want another kid, hmm?"

"Whenever the situation presented itself," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly from where he was resting on his side of the bed, eyes closed, fingers steepled against his lips. "As it did this evening."

"Ah. Right, of course."

"So, uhm… Were you serious?"

"Hmm?"

"About wanting another one?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to gaze at John, brows drawn in confusion. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just… Never expected you'd want more children…"

"Oh. Well, neither did I, I suppose. But I suppose it's only logical, given Lyla's success, to have more children." Sherlock took a breath and allowed his gaze to float away from John. "And I've become so incredibly fond of her."

"Mmm," John hummed in agreement. "So you've… given this some thought, yeah?"

"Yes, I have."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What are your thoughts?" John asked with a chuckle.

"Oh. Well, I'm mainly curious to see if I would even be able to conceive again. And of course I wouldn't mind another child… In fact, I was rather hoping you'd help me with that," Sherlock added quietly, eyes studying John for his reaction. "That is, I was wondering if you'd be interested in lending me a donation, so as to artificially inseminate." Quickly panicking upon seeing the way John was gazing him, Sherlock continued his explanation, pulse beating rapidly in his fingers. "It only seemed logical that we should have a child together, you see, given the fact that we already have one child, and we've fallen utterly in love with her, and I—"

"Sherlock!"

Cutting himself short, Sherlock pressed his lips together and gazed at his flat mate, eyes shifting frantically back and forth.

"I would be… absolutely honored… to have a child with you, Sherlock."

Sherlock released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Do you mean that?" he asked, deep voice rumbling in his chest.

"Yes. I do." Flashing a reassuring smile, John patted his friend on the shoulder. "But. It's far too late to discuss such important decisions. We can talk more tomorrow, yes?" the doctor asked with a yawn.

A hint of a smile quirked over Sherlock's lips. "Indeed," he mumbled, pulling the sheets up around his slender form. Clicking off the light, Sherlock rolled onto his back and crossed his legs at the ankles beneath the covers, returning to his standard "thinking pose."

"How on earth did I get wrapped up with you?" John mumbled fondly.

Just as the detective was about to respond, Lyla's cries crackled through the baby monitor. Chuckling deep in his chest, Sherlock replied with a hint of a smirk, "Your turn."


	18. Trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! And a very Happy Christmas to you all! =) This is a shorter chapter for you guys, but with a little more plot to it than the last one. We're getting close to more m-preg! =D
> 
> Seriously though, this story has become such fun to write and I just want to thank all those who are following/have followed and reviewed because it is all of you and your motivating reviews that give me the extra shove I need to complete each chapter. I simply love writing this fic. and I'm so happy I have others to share it with, so a huge shout out to all of you!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and have a very happy Christmas/break! Thank you once again to everyone! I greatly appreciate such lovely support! (Please excuse the errors I'm sure you will find.)
> 
> P.S. Just a warning: quite a bit of fluff at the end of this one. I rather got carried away.

"But why, John?" Sherlock groaned from where he was lying on the couch, long limbs splaying this way and that.

"Because it's considerate."

"Yes, but why? Why would we want so many people present for her birthday? We didn't invite anyone for her first."

"And there was a huge uproar, Sherlock, which is why we're inviting people for her second."

The detective rolled his eyes. "Fine." Wrapping his robe around his slender form, Sherlock tossed himself into the back of the cushions and tucked his legs upwards.

John rolled his eyes. "Git," he muttered under his breath.

"Heard that."

"Good."

 

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke to the feeling of a small body tugging at the hem of his robe quickly followed by a whispered, "Da'ey?"

Opening his eyes, the detective glanced over the edge of his bed to find Lyla, clutching a blanket, gazing up at him. Brows tugging together, Sherlock reached down and pulled Lyla onto the bed. "How did you get out of your… Oh." Sherlock's brows pinched further together. "Lyla, love, why are you crying?"

Face crumpling, and still clutching her blanket, Lyla tilted forward and wrapped her arms around her father's neck, sniffling against the skin of his cheek. "I hads an bad dream."

"You had a bad dream?" Sherlock murmured with a frown.

A sniffle. "Mm-hmm."

"Oh, well…" Glancing to his left to make sure John was still sleeping, Sherlock silently rolled out of bed, keeping Lyla in his arms, and then snatched his robe. "Would you care to talk about it?" he asked, vaguely remembering the question as being something his parents had asked him as a young child.

"W'ht, Da'ey?"

"Would you care to discuss your dream? Tell me what happened?"

"Oh."

Having reached the couch, Sherlock sat, and crossed his legs. "So is that a yes?" he asked, settling his daughter atop his lap.

Rubbing a little fist over her wet cheeks, Lyla nodded with a little whimper.

"Very good, then."

"'Kay…" Taking a deep breath, Lyla began.

Sherlock listened patiently to his daughter's half-babble, half-English retelling of her dream. When it was clear his little daughter was done, Sherlock pressed her small form close and wrapped his lanky arms around her. "I'm very sorry, love."

Taking a deep breath, Lyla hummed, "It 'kay, Da'ey. I now better."

Sherlock chuckled. "Good. Shall we go back to bed, then?"

Lyla nodded and wrapped her arms around her father's neck, yawning as she did so. "'Kay."

"Excellent." Sherlock pressed a kiss to his daughter's temple and then stood. "Do you feel better now?" he asked, making his way towards the landing and up the stairs.

"Not, Da'ey."

The detective paused mid-step. "No what?"

Pulling away from Sherlock's chest, Lyla pointed up the stairs to her room, keeping a firm grip around her father's collar with the other hand. "Not Da'ey."

Sherlock's gaze followed his daughter's small hand. A small smile graced his lips upon understanding. "Ah. I see."

"Is it 'kay, Da'ey?"

Sherlock smiled sadly. "Of course, Lyla. It is perfectly fine." The detective pressed a kiss to his daughter's cheek and then, keeping her firmly nestled against his chest, padded into his room. When Lyla continued to cling to his shirt, rather than attempt to crawl onto the bed, Sherlock placed a hand on her back and settled into the familiar contours of his bed. The detective waited patiently for Lyla to settle herself in between himself and John's sleeping form. "Good?"

Sighing contently to herself, Lyla nestled close to her father's side and nodded. "Mm-hmm."

"Excellent." Sherlock set a hand atop Lyla's back in the hope of urging her to sleep. "Very good."

"Hm, Da'ey," Lyla hummed softly to herself. Sherlock could feel as her small fingers grabbed a handful of his robe.

In a few minutes' time, Sherlock could feel his daughter's even breaths beneath his palm. The detective closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the peacefulness of the domesticity surrounding him. He had a family. A real family.

"Did she have a bad dream, then?"

Sherlock nearly jumped upon hearing his flat mate's tired voice. The detective quietly cleared his throat. "Yes. Though I've no idea what it was about." A chuckle. Sherlock could make out John's form turning towards him in the darkness.

"You're such a softie," the doctor murmured, keeping his eyes closed.

An eyeroll. "Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock barely noticed as he ran a thumb ran up and down the length of Lyla's spine.

Chuckling to himself, John scooted closer to Lyla's sleeping form and ran several fingers through her hair. "I suppose it wouldn't be entirely horrible to entertain the thought of another one," the doctor murmured with a hint of a sly smile.

Fingers stilling, Sherlock met his flat mate's gaze. "Really?" he murmured softly.

A smile.

 

 

 

 

 

After much deliberation, it was determined—mostly by Sherlock—that the most effective strategy to achieve pregnancy would be artificial insemination. Funded by Mycroft, much to the detective's chagrin, it was determined several trials would be run, and if, after the number of trials had been completed, pregnancy had not been achieved, the trials would end.

Gearing up for the first trial-run, Sherlock sat, lying on a cot in a fertility clinic, heart pounding frantically in his chest.

"You know, this is quite an interesting process," John mused from where he was sitting next to his flat mate, flipping through an information pamphlet. "Did you know they actually have to—"

"John Watson, would you please shut up?" Sherlock asked, pressing the heels of his palms to his temple. Wiping away a few beads of sweat that formed on his forehead, the detective tossed his head to the other side, so his face was hidden from John. "Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, worrying his lip with his teeth.

Setting the pamphlet in his lap, John crossed his legs and gazed worriedly at his flat mate. "Sherlock? What're you on about?"

Throwing an arm over his eyes with his usual dramatic flair, said detective heaved a sigh. "I'm just… uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable?"

Another sigh. "Nervous, John. I'm nervous."

"Oh." The doctor's gaze suddenly softened. "I'm sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault."

"I know. But I can still feel bad. Why are you feeling so nervous?"

Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door.

Sherlock suddenly felt nauseous. Brushing away a few stray curls that had fallen into his eyes, the detective sat upon on the cot, sheet crinkling loudly beneath him as he did so.

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?" asked a young woman as she opened the door.

Knowing Sherlock's state of mind was a tad stressed at the moment, John answered the nurse's question. "Yes, that's us."

"Excellent." Turning to John, the nurse checked her laptop. "John Watson?"

"Yes."

"Are you the sperm donator, then?"

John cleared his throat and glanced towards Sherlock, who was gazing expectantly at him. "Yes, the donation is mine."

"Perfect. I'll just need to take your blood pressure and run a few other tests, Mr. Holmes, and then I'll send in the doctor and we can begin treatment." Setting her laptop on the nearest counter, the nurse moved to the other side of Sherlock's cot and busied herself with getting the thermometer ready.

Eyes raking over the nervous lines that had etched themselves into his friend's sculpted face, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's slender ones, giving them a gentle squeeze when the detective jumped. "We can do this… Yeah?"

Fingers relaxing beneath John's warm touch, Sherlock released a breath. "Yes. We can."

 

 

 

 

 

 

John and Sherlock sat in the kitchen, at a terribly ungodly hour, with Sherlock staring intently into his microscope, fingers poised over the magnification knobs.

"Well?" John asked, from where he was seated across from Sherlock, drumming nervously against his leg. "Result?"

Releasing a breath of defeat, Sherlock released the microscope from his grasp and leaned back. "Negative," he rumbled, lips drawing down at the corners. "Again."

John released his own breath. "Oh."

"That's the fourth try, John… I think it might be time to consider the possibility that conception is no longer a possibility," Sherlock murmured softly, eyes glazing over as he stared at the microscope.

John nodded slowly in response. "One more."

"Hmm?"

"We'll have one more go at it. And, if that one comes up negative, too, we'll call it quits," the doctor explained with a sigh. "Agreed?"

Blinking out of his thoughts, Sherlock nodded. "Agreed."

 

 

 

 

 

Closing his eyes as he heard the thin sheet covering his legs crinkle, Sherlock held his breath, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. Five… Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two... Until he heard the ring of the timer signaling he was able to go home. Glancing towards John to make sure he was otherwise occupied, Sherlock slid off the cot and quickly pulled on his trousers.

"Done?"

"Mmm. Enjoying your magazine, then?" Sherlock mumbled with a faint smirk and a nod towards the glossy paper in John's hands.

"Hmm?"

"Thought so."

"Oh. Done, then?"

Sherlock merely nodded.

"Right." Standing, John grabbed Sherlock's coat and handed it to the detective. "I suppose we should wish us both luck, hmm?"

"Indeed. Best of luck, then."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Lyla! Lyla, look over here!" Sherlock called to his daughter, laughing. Pulling out his mobile, the detective quickly snapped several pictures of his daughter, who was giggling madly to her little self.

"Now, now, you two, enough stalling," Mrs. Hudson cooed. "It's time she got her cake." Smiling, the landlady grabbed the small cake she'd prepared and set it in front of Lyla, where she was seated at the kitchen table. "Let the little one dig in."

Rolling his eyes playfully, Sherlock tucked away his mobile and took a seat next to John, who had Lyla situated in his lap. The two flat mates watched as Lyla, pampered by all of the attention she was receiving, bashfully tested her cake with a small spoon.

"Takes after her father, then," Mycroft murmured affectionately.

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, equally affectionate. The detective turned to find Lyla offering him a piece of cake. "Ah. Thank you, love." With a hint of a smile, Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed Lyla to set the squished handful of cake in his mouth, though much of it ended up smeared on his cheek.

"Oops! I is sorry, Da'ey," Lyla giggled.

Sherlock raised a playful brow before wiping away the smeared cake and licking it off his fingers, which elicited a delighted squeal from Lyla.

"Good, Da'ey?"

The detective grinned warmly. "Excellent."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Pres'ments now John?" Lyla shouted behind her, attempting to be heard over the chatter.

"Ah, yes, of course. How could I have forgotten?" Lyla still settled on his lap, John made to stand up.

"Oh. One moment, John," Sherlock inputted. The detective snatched a nearby towel and dabbed it in his water. "We've gotten a tad bit messy, hmm?" Gently holding Lyla's face in place, Sherlock ran the wet cloth over her skin, clearing away the excess cake, much to the little girl's chagrin. "My apologies," Sherlock chuckled at the scowl he was receiving. The detective removed the cloth

"Now, Joh'n?"

Suppressing a grin, John raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Now."

Hopping off the doctor's lap, Lyla toddled into the sitting room, followed by her flat mate parents and their guests. "I can sits, Da'ey?" the little girl asked softly, tugging at her father's fingers.

"Why, it would be my absolute pleasure," Sherlock exclaimed with a playful dramatic flair. Sitting cross-legged next to John, who had already taken a seat on the sitting room floor, Sherlock scooped his daughter into his arms and settled her in his lap. "Happy birthday, love," he whispered, pressing a playful kiss to the little girl's neck.

Giggling in delight, Lyla settled into her father's familiar hold.

With the little girl seated in her father's lap the gift-opening process went by fairly painlessly—the exception being a robotic cat from Greg, which happened to send Lyla into a fit of hysterics. Said gift was then promptly deposed of by Sherlock, who, even after the gift-opening was over, was still glaring at the Inspector.

"Be nice," John chuckled in a whisper, nudging Sherlock with his elbow as he took a sip of his tea.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Fine. You'll take care of her tonight when she has nightmares."

John snorted softly. "As if you'd let me. Ah, good evening Mrs. Hudson. Let me walk you down."

Lips parted just slightly, Sherlock watched his flat mate's retreat in form, brows creased together. The detective blinked away upon realizing Molly was in front of him.

"I'm heading home, then," the pathologist explained in a whisper, nodding to Lyla, who had practically fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms.

"Ah. Very well, then. Goodnight, Molly. thank you for coming and for your gifts. Lyla seemed to enjoy them very much." With a warm smile, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the pathologist's cheek. "Thank you."

Molly merely returned the smile, and then silently ducked out of the flat.

Smiling after the petite pathologists, Sherlock pressed his lips to Lyla's temple and then padded into the sitting room. "Always the last to leave, it seems," the detective murmured towards his brother, who was gazing out the window, twirling his umbrella.

"Mmm," Mycroft hummed, raising a brow. "So it would seem." Fingers stilling, the government official turned away from the window.

Sherlock watched as his brother's usually-stoic features melted away to reveal his seldom-seen interior. "Would you care to say goodnight to her?" the detective asked with a kind quirk of his lips.

The small smile that had been forming on Mycroft's lips suddenly faltered. "Oh, uhm… Well, I'm not quite—"

"Oh, for heavens' sake." Rolling his eyes and with a hint of a smirk, Sherlock stood. "Lyla?" he whispered, gently running a and up and down the length of the little girl's spine.

"Hmm… Da'ey?" Lyla groaned with a yawn. "Up?"

A chuckle. "Not exactly." Sherlock angled himself so Lyla could see Mycroft from where she was resting against his chest. "Would you care to say goodbye to Uncle Mycroft? Hmm?"

"Myc?" Lifting her head, a smile graced the little girl's lips upon catching sight of her uncle. "Mm. Can see, Da'ey?"

"Of course." Smiling knowingly at his elder brother, Sherlock smoothed a hand over his daughter's curls before passing her to the government official.

"Hmm. My." Oblivious to her uncle's uncertainty around her, Lyla wrapped her small arms around the government official's neck and settled her head against his chest.

"Ah, right. Well… Happy birthday, Lyla."

Lyla giggled softly and snuggled closer to her uncle's chest, tugging at his tie. "Go bye?" she whispered with a yawn.

"Mmm. I'm afraid I must."

"Oh…" Lips forming a small frown, Lyla tilted her gaze up towards the government official. "Bye hugs?" she asked quietly.

Mycroft felt a small flutter in his chest upon hearing his niece's request. "From me?"

Giggling confusedly, Lyla nodded. "Silly, My."

"Of course it was. My apologies," Mycroft agreed, also chuckling. "It would be my absolute pleasure to give you a hug." Propping his umbrella against John's chair, Mycroft slowly lowered to the ground and set Lyla on her feet. Ignoring the smile he was sure Sherlock was trying to hide, the government official allowed Lyla to wrap her small limbs around him. Without hesitation, Mycroft returned the hug and pressed his little niece close, amazed that a child as full of life as Lyla was could possibly have taken such a fond interest in him.

"Okay. Was a good g-bye hugs, Myc," Lyla complimented as she backed away from the government official. Rubbing tiredly at her eyes, the little girl huddled next to Sherlock's legs and rested her head against the detective's knees.

"Well, thank you."

"Wel'cmin."

"Lovely manners," Sherlock praised in a whisper, giving Lyla's back a warm pat.

"Tanks, Da'ey," the little girl replied, also in a whisper.

Lips quirked fondly to the side, Sherlock turned is gaze to Mycroft. "Thank you for coming," he thanked with a nod, curling a hand around the side of Lyla's little form.

"I can assure you, Sherlock. For once, it was my absolute pleasure." With a tip of his head and a twirl of his recently-fetched umbrella, the government official had escaped down the stairs and the flat was suddenly quiet.

Assuming John was still probably chatting with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock bent over and pulled Lyla's wobbly form into his arms. "Come along then," the detective murmured against her forehead, "off to bed, then." Holding his daughter on his hip with one pale arm, Sherlock pulled his violin and bow from behind his couch, and slowly ascended the stairs to Lyla's room. "Ohh, here we are, my love," he sighed as he lowered Lyla's small body onto her equally-little bed.

"Mm." Eyes heavy with sleep, Lyla made an attempt to help as Sherlock tucked her under the covers.

"It's quite alright, love. I've got it, tonight."

"Oh… 'Kay, Da'ey. Tan…" A yawn. "Tanks you."

With a rumble of chuckle, Sherlock murmured, "You're very welcome. Now…" Holding his violin and bow in one hand, the detective snatched the rocking chair residing in the corner of the room and situated it near the head of Lyla's bed. "For one last song." Crossing his legs, Sherlock positioned the instrument under his chin and began to play. First a simple rendition of "Happy Birthday", simply plucked out on a few of the strings. The tune soon transformed, however, into a soft, sweeping melody, interlaced with the initial song.

Fingers gliding over the strings with ease, Sherlock played the gentle melody with bow and fingertips, silver eyes tenderly observing his daughter. When the detective saw Lyla's eyes finally fall shut, the melody faded to an end. Sucking in a silent breath of air, Sherlock waited for the thrum of the music to leave his fingertips. When he finally felt the last pulse of the piece he'd written slip from his veins, the detective released a breath and blinked away the glaze that had formed on his eyes. Now gazing at his sleeping daughter, Sherlock set his violin on the ground and crouched next to the head of her bed. "Oh, my darling," he whispered, smoothing a hand over the faint curls of the little girl's brown hair, "look what you've done to us. You've made us a family." Sherlock felt the breath momentarily escape his lips when Lyla shifted in her sleep, resulting in one of her little hands falling atop his own.

Sherlock released a breath with a chuckle. "My, how I've fallen utterly in love with you… Goodnight, my birthday girl."

"Sherlock Holmes."

A small smile quirked over the detective's lips upon hearing his flat mate's voice. "John?" he asked, catching John's gaze from where he was leaning against the doorway.

The doctor took an audible breath. "It would be my absolute bloody pleasure if I would be privileged enough to have a child with you."

Cheeks flushing a dark pink, Sherlock's gaze fell to the ground and then to Lyla's hand, still resting gently atop his own slender fingers. "I can assure you, John Watson..." The blush soon fading from his cheeks, Sherlock pressed another quick kiss to Lyla's cheek and then carefully slid his hand out from beneath her own. Settling his steel-blue gaze on his flat mate, Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and then nodded. "The privilege would most certainly be mine."


	19. Positive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! (Finally!) ;D
> 
> We can now begin to get back into the swing of things! I wrote this chapter quickly, so I hope it all makes sense! ;P
> 
> Happy New Year everyone! =)

With the test of the last trial having borne a negative, it was generally accepted by Sherlock and John that achieving pregnancy was no longer possible. The detective had ruled Lyla simply a scientific anomaly, never to occur again, though he soon after changed his phrasing to "scientific miracle."

Several weeks after the last test had been run, Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the sitting room floor, a very sick Lyla curled against chest. "For bloody hells' sake, I know she's sick, John!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily. "What I need is for you to do something, not just stand there and tell me useless information I am already aware of!"

Having been up all night tending to Lyla with his inhuman flat mate, who would go days without sleep, John rubbed his eyes. "It's probably a stomach bug," he sighed in defeat, knowing his diagnosis would not calm Sherlock.

"Well, can you give her something for it?" the detective muttered, lowering voice as he smoothed a hand over his daughter's curls.

"I'm afraid not. We need to wait and see if she can go an hour or so without vomiting. If and when she can, we'll start with some ice chips and water, and progress from there."

Frowning, Sherlock pressed his cheek to his daughter's temple.

"Still no fever?"

"No."

"Well that's good, I suppose."

"Da'ey," Lyla moaned, grabbing a handful of her father's silky robe as she gagged.

Sherlock's frown deepened.

"Bowl," John stated sadly, snatching the large bowl they'd fetched just for this purpose. He handed it to Sherlock, who quickly sat in his chair and positioned the bowl in front of Lyla. The little girl dry-heaved into the ceramic, bringing another slew of tears to her eyes.

"Oh my darling, I am so sorry," Sherlock whispered sadly into his daughter's ear, holding back her curls. "I'm just here…"

John watched the scene sadly, feeling quite helpless. "Nothing we can do but wait it out, I'm afraid," he mumbled, toying with the hem of his jumper. "Poor thing." Sherlock hummed his agreement.

Several hours later, the trio of flat mates were seated on the couch, Lyla nestled safely between them, a bowl of ice chips in her lap. Per the little girl's request, the three were watching Frozen, a movie Sherlock positively despised, though the detective had managed to swallow his distaste for the sake of his sick daughter.

"Mmm," Lyla whined, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Do you think you're going to get sick again?" Sherlock asked, poised to fetch a bowl.

Sniffling, Lyla pondered for a few moments, eyes still closed, and for a moment, Sherlock was struck by the vast similarities between him and his daughter. Shaking away his occurrence, the detective watched and waited.

"No, Da'ey. I is okay," Lyla whispered eventually with an exhale.

Relaxing back into the cushions of the couch, Sherlock gazed sadly at his daughter, who had returned her gaze to the television. With slender fingers, the detective began to stroke several fingers through Lyla's silky curls, hoping it soothed her in the same way it seemed to him.

"I does not like, Da'ey," Lyla moaned, resting her head against the detective's shoulder.

"I know, my love," Sherlock whispered, heart practically breaking in his chest. "I'm so very sorry. Is there anything I can get you?"

"… Teddy?"

Sherlock smiled, a sad, bittersweet twitch of his lips. "Of course. You stay with John. I'll be right back." Tenderly removing his fingertips from the little girl's hair, Sherlock silently left the couch and returned a few moments later, Lyla's beloved stuffed animal grasped tightly between his fingers. "Here you go, love," the detective whispered as he reclaimed his seat.

With a sniffle, Lyla accepted the teddy bear and clutched it close to her chest. "Better, Da'ey," she reassured quietly.

"Good. Now. Let's see we can't get some sleep, hmm?" the detective asked, allowing Lyla to once again press her form against his arm.

"Mmm-hmm." Eyelids clearly heavy with sleep, Lyla gazed at the television.

Very aware of his daughter's form resting heavily against is arms, Sherlock once again ran several fingertips through her silky hair, pleased when her eyelids began to flutter in time with his fingers.

Eventually, John had nodded off to sleep, soon followed by Lyla, who, in between that time, had managed to drink a glass of water and keep it down.

Listening to the sounds of his flat mate and daughter slumbering peacefully next to him, Sherlock closed his eyes. For the first time in weeks, the detective welcomed sleep. Counting each of his daughter's light breaths, Sherlock released a breath of his own, and with it the tension of the past day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke to a dull pain in his stomach. Senses thrumming to life slower than usual, the detective frowned, realizing it wasn't pain he was feeling, but nausea.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock soon regretted waking up, as his stomach seemed to be doing summersaults. "Mmm." Also realizing his head was pounding, the detective glanced to his right and found John, sound asleep with his mouth hanging open, and Lyla situated comfortably on his chest, no doubt because of the comfort his soft jumper provided.

Feeling suddenly as if he were going to vomit, Sherlock silently left the couch and hurried into the bathroom where he knelt in front of the toilet, gripping either side with lithe fingers. Muscles quivering, the detective retched into the bowl, body releasing what little food it contained. Mind momentarily freezing, Sherlock's lithe fingers gripped the sides of the bowl as he vomited, soon emptying the contents of his stomach.

"Oh…" The wave of nausea momentarily ceasing, Sherlock spit into the toilet in a futile attempt to rid his mouth of the bitter taste. "Insufferable," the detective muttered as he realized he must have gotten the same 24-hour bug Lyla had.

Now freed from the overwhelming sensation of vomiting, Sherlock suddenly realized he'd broken into a clammy sweat. Running a hand through his raven curls, the detective groaned as he felt another wave of nausea crash over him. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, pressing his cheek against the cool surface of the tub behind him. Knowing he'd emptied the contents of his stomach with the last go around, Sherlock prepared to dry heave into the bowl, almost wishing something would come up.

Muscles in his arms quivering as he gripped the sides of the toilet, Sherlock waited until the urge to gag subsided and then tugged off his shirt, wishing to be free from the constricting fabric. The detective tossed the shirt away before returning to his position, hovering above the bowl, waiting for the next bout of nausea.

If he'd caught whatever bug Lyla had, Sherlock knew it was going to be a long night. Glad Lyla was sound asleep in John's arms, Sherlock settled in for the restless night he knew was about to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John awoke to sunlight.

Blinking awake, the doctor suddenly realized a small mass was settled in his arms. "Oh," he sighed upon remembering Lyla and Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch with him. "Sherlock," the doctor yawned, eyes squeezing shut as he did so, "we should probably…" John's thought trailed away upon finding the spot next to him vacant. "Oh." Suspecting his flat mate had taken refuge in his own room sometime during the night, John turned his attention back to Lyla. As she had probably had a restless night, the doctor decided to take her to her room, suspecting she would still sleep for several more hours. "Up we go, then."

With some effort, John managed to stand without waking Lyla. Cradling his little flat mate close, the doctor made his way up the stairs to his old room and silently deposited Lyla under the covers. "There we go, little one. Get some sleep for me, yeah?"

Lyla hummed approvingly in her sleep.

"Good," John chuckled. After he was sure the little girl was not going to wake, the doctor silently let himself from the room and then headed into the kitchen in search of food.

After several minutes of pawing through the fridge on a fruitless search for food, John suddenly frowned. Something was wrong. Sherlock was always up before him, and even if he was up, the detective never just sat in bed. Through the time John had spent with the detective, he had learned Sherlock's brain did not permit him to simply take a break or have a morning lie in.

A frown creased upon his lips, John shut the refrigerator door and hurriedly padded into Sherlock's room. "Sherlock?" he called quietly, not wanting his voice to carry and wake Lyla. "Sherlock." Finding the detective's room empty, John quickly tapped open the door to the bathroom, expecting to find it empty. Instead, however, he was met with the sight of Sherlock, sound asleep with his mouth hanging ajar, leaning up against he tub, limbs splayed this way and that.

Quite confused as to why his flat mate was passed out on the bathroom floor, John took a step in and soon understood. Sick. The doctor could feel it practically oozing out of the walls. "Ah." Suspecting Sherlock had caught the same bug Lyla had, the doctor placed his hands on his hips and glanced around. From the look of the bathroom—towels strewn about, Sherlock's discarded shirt—John suspected the detective had spent most, if not all of the night sick. "Poor git."

Coming to the conclusion that the detective would probably, much like Lyla, be sleeping for quite a while longer, John backed out of the bathroom and then returned with a blanket. Praying his flat mate would stay asleep, for once, the doctor crouched down and then draped the fabric around Sherlock's half-bare, slumbering form. Quite pleased with himself, the doctor nodded his approval. "You're welcome," he added with a fond smirk, clicking off the light. "You can thank me later for not taking a picture."

Leaving his friend to a much-needed rest, John silently left the bathroom and then padded into the kitchen, once again in search of food.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Several hours later, Sherlock awoke with a start, as if his body had suddenly realized it had overdosed on the normal amount of rest, and insisted such an atrocity be stopped.

Grumbling something unintelligible, the detective opened his eyes and frowned slightly upon finding he was in the bathroom. "Oh." Remembering he'd become sick the previous night, Sherlock sat up, breathing a sigh of relief upon finding his stomach felt perfectly calm. "Thank God."

The bitter taste of bile still burning in his mouth, Sherlock stood, nearly jumping as a blanket fell from his form. John. A fond smile tugged at the corner of the detective's lips. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shook his head, bemused by his flat mate's domestic tendencies.

Realizing he'd made a mess of the bathroom, Sherlock snatched the blanket John had gotten for him and tossed it back on his bed. The detective then gathered his discarded shirt and tossed it in the laundry bin, along with a few towels that had been scattered across the floor.

Suddenly feeling the effects of the previous night, Sherlock padded over to the sink and, planting a hand on either side, glanced in the mirror. The detective frowned upon catching sight of himself. Except for the near-constant look of exhaustion that resided beneath his eyes, Sherlock found that he looked perfectly normal. Better than normal, in fact; his skin seemed less transparent, his usually grey eyes glowed blue with life, and his cheekbones, usually sharp planes on his face now seemed to slope into his skin, forming an elegant dip.

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock ran several fingers through his raven curls, instantly regretting it when the motion brought to light the fact that his head was throbbing painfully. "Insufferable."

Still rather confused by his appearance and feeling quite groggy, Sherlock turned around and started the shower, hoping the running water would clear his mind.

Stepping out of his trousers and pants, Sherlock stepped into the shower, instantly grateful for the heat and steam, and the solace it always seemed to provide.

Running soap over his lanky form, Sherlock scrubbed gently at his skin, as if attempting to clean the sickness from his body. Turning the heat all the way up, the detective allowed goosebumps to race down the length of his arms as the sensation of hot water hitting his skin momentarily dulled the throbbing in his temples.

Once he felt sufficiently clean, Sherlock stepped out of the shower, and after drying himself off, pulled on a pair of pajama trousers and an old t-shirt. Running a hand over his cheeks, which seemed to feel somehow fuller, now he'd seen his reflection, the detective padded into the kitchen to find John making coffee and toast, one of the few foods he would tolerate eating on a daily basis.

"Ah. Good morning," the doctor greeted with a smirk. "Enjoy your sleep then, did you?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took a seat behind his microscope and peered into the lens, knowing there were no slides, but enjoying the repetitive movement. "Enjoy burning toast, do you?" he replied, equally snide, in reference to the smoke that could be seen wafting out of the toaster.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

Sherlock smirked to himself and watched as his flat mate attempted to save the blackened bread. "I don't know why you're even bothering," the detective chuckled, knowing the toast was beyond saving.

Having managed to scoop the bread onto a plate, John tossed the burnt toast into the bin with a frustrated huff. Turning to the coffee maker, the doctor poured the dark beverage into two mugs with more force than was necessary. "Bloody toaster," he muttered, setting one of the mugs in front of his smirking flat mate. "Oh, piss off."

Not bothering to conceal his smile, Sherlock raised a playful eyebrow. "Not likely." Wrapping his fingers around the warm mug, the detective lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. "John!" Sherlock exclaimed with a gag upon tasting the coffee his mug contained. "How did you possibly manage to ruin coffee?" Grimacing at the taste lingering on his tongue, the detective hurried over to the sink and dumped the contents of his mug down the drain.

Frowning, John sniffed his own beverage and then took a sip. His frown deepened further upon finding that it tasted the way it did every morning. "There's nothing wrong with the coffee, Sherlock," he stated, worry creasing his features.

"Of course there is!" Taking note of his friend's worried expression, Sherlock fetched another mug and then poured another glass, wondering if his batch had simply been tainted in some way. Before he even had time to transfer the liquid to his mouth, however, the detective's nostrils were engulfed in the usually-familar smell of coffee. Pitching forward, the detective turned to the sink, knowing he would not make it to the bathroom, and once again began to retch.

"Bloody hell," John muttered, so unused to seeing his godlike flat mate in such a vulnerable state. "I'm sorry about the coffee," the doctor added, realizing Sherlock's sickness had probably affected the taste.

Coughing into the sink, Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine," the detective muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm fine," he added in a whisper, brows tugging together.

"You know, maybe we should take you to the doctor, Sherlock. It's possible you've caught something else; Lyla couldn't keep food down but her tastes didn't change."

Sherlock straightened and, filling a nearby glass with water, shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you." Inhaling deeply, the detective took a sip of the water, grimacing at the taste as he swallowed.

"Sure?"

A nod. "Quite."

Worry beginning to trickle into his veins, Sherlock waited until John and left for work for the day and then opened his laptop and began researching. When nothing else seemed to happen for the rest of the day, however, the detective began to hope that he had simply caught a bug, and the worst was over.

But as he lay in bed that night, John snoring next to him, the detective once again felt another bout of nausea tear away at his insides. Silently rolling out of bed, and careful not to wake his sleeping friend, Sherlock pressed the back of his hand to his lips before shutting the bathroom door behind him as he once again knelt in front of the toilet, where he remained for the entire night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, John awoke to the familiar sensation of Sherlock crawling into bed next to him. Without even looking at his flat mate, the doctor could tell Sherlock had once again been sick. He could hear it in the ragged, tired breaths passing back and forth between the detective's lips and the way Sherlock had flung his hand onto his side of the bed, where it was now resting against his own bicep.

"Sick again?" John finally asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

Knowing the doctor couldn't see, Sherlock nodded. "Indeed."

"And you're not concerned?"

A pause. "No," the detective lied. "I'll be fine."

Over the next few days, however, Sherlock proved to be quite the opposite.

"That's it! I'm taking you in right now, Sherlock. Have you seen yourself the past three days?" John exclaimed from where he was leaning against the doorway, grimacing as he watched his flat mate vomit into the toilet bowl. Given the ungodly hour, the doctor was still dressed in his pajamas.

Once he'd finished the current bout of vomiting, Sherlock shoved himself away from the toilet and then, breathing heavily, started the water running in the sink. "I've already looked online," he stated, cupping a hand beneath the running water. "With the exception of a few 24-hour bugs—which this is obviously not—there's nothing else it could be except for a various number of tropical diseases, all of which I am displaying only one symptom: vomiting, which instantly rules them out. I have none of the other symptoms; no fever, diarrhea, light-headedness, rash." Drinking the water from his hand, Sherlock swished the liquid around his mouth, trying to get rid of the sick taste, before spitting it back into the sink. Shaking his head, the detective glanced back to the toilet, gazing at it as if it were some mystery, waiting to solved. "There's nothing else I could possibly think of this being except for…" Brain suddenly crashing to a halt, Sherlock's heart soon followed suit upon coming to a sudden realization.

John frowned from where he was standing in the doorway, having noticed the way Sherlock was staring intently at the wall, an almost stricken look creasing his features. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it?"

"Vomiting. Nausea," the detective murmured, voice just a rumble. "Change in taste perception. Although I've been unable to eat, I've actually had an appetite to do so the past few days." Eyes wide, Sherlock turned his attention to John, who still looked utterly confused. "It's been nearly six weeks since the last trial, John," the detective added in an intense whisper, hoping his flat mate would catch on.

Eyes widening, John's lips parted just slightly. "Morning sickness," he murmured in understanding.

As if on cue, Sherlock turned and began dry heaving into the toilet bowl. "Indeed." Pushing aside the turmoil sloshing in his middle, the detective stood up, as quickly as he dared, and then hurried over to the mirror. "Morning sickness begins to peak at around week six," he continued, still in an intense whisper, though he was no longer talking to John. Feeling his pulse beat unforgivingly in his fingertips, Sherlock untucked his button-up and, splaying his fingers over his pale middle, lifted his shirt just enough to expose the skin of his middle.

Exhaling sharply, Sherlock gazed at his reflection, taking note of his middle, which, usually almost concave, was now pressed out, the slightest bump—barely even that—residing beneath his fingertips.

Sherlock's eyes soon widened with the excitement of possibility flooding his silver-blue eyes with life. "Do you think it's possible?" the detective all-but gasped. "But the test was negative. We checked it multiple times. It was negative."

"Maybe we checked it too early," John contemplated, now also whispering at the impossible possibility facing them. "It's possible the change in hormones were not yet detectable."

With something that sounded like a strangled sob and a laugh escaping his lips, Sherlock suddenly pitched forward.

Worried his flat mate was going to fall, John outstretched his arms, only to have the space between them soon filled with the detective's lanky form.

"Oh, there's a possibility!" Sherlock exclaimed into John's neck. "A possibility." Releasing the doctor from his grasp, Sherlock turned on his heel and hurried out of the bathroom. "Thank you, John," the detective whispered breathlessly, quickly ducking his head into the bathroom before he had disappeared once again. "I'm going to change, I'll be right back. Go get your coat and inform Mrs. Hudson that we will be back shortly, but that Lyla is here," Sherlock called to his flat mate as he changed, the excitement burning his stomach overwhelming the nausea.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of night. Mrs. Hudson's not going to be awake.

"It's Friday," Sherlock called, as if that was explanation enough.

John made a face. "So?"

"She's still watching telly."

Rolling his eyes, John chuckled to himself. "Of course she is." Obeying, the doctor ducked out of the bathroom and, after informing a now-very excited Mrs. Hudson of their trip, John returned to the flat to find Sherlock was now fully clothed.

John couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation; Sherlock, who had been sick for the past few days, felt the need to change into one of his suits so they could catch a cab in the middle of the night and go to a part of the hospital in which they would be the only people. "Ready?"

Eyes bright and excited, Sherlock nodded. "Let's go."

John couldn't help but notice that as Sherlock smoothed a hand down the front of his suit, several fingers seemed to linger just slightly against the fabric covering his middle. Smiling, the doctor followed his flat mate down the stairs, almost struggling to keep up with the pace the detective, and his longer legs, had set.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock drummed impatiently on his legs as he waited for John, who was fumbling with the keys, attempting to find the right set that would open the door they needed.

"Got them!"

"Finally," Sherlock exclaimed with a groan. "About bloody time." Pushing past his flat mate, the detective hurriedly shed himself of his coat and scarf and then flicked on the light, not bothering to wait for his slower flat mate.

"Right, now, just hop on the—"

"Yes, I know, John." With a dismissive wave of his fingers, Sherlock crawled onto the cot and, after pulling his shirt to expose his middle, lay back.

"Right." Working quickly, as he knew Sherlock was becoming impatient, John pulled out the ultrasound machine from under one of the cabinets and then clicked it to life. Gel in hand, the doctor positioned the tube over his flat mate's bare middle. "Right, now this is going to be—"

"Cold, yes I know, John. Please, just…" Taking a steadying breath, Sherlock closed his eyes. "Apologies."

"That's alright," John chuckled, squirting the contents of the tube onto Sherlock's middle. "I'm just as excited as you are. Right. Now, let's see if we can't just find anything…"

Keeping his eyes closed, Sherlock focused on the sound of John's steady breaths, the feel of the ultrasound wand gliding over his stomach. There has to be a child. It's the only logical explanation. There would be. Suddenly, there was no more movement, and though he knew this was not the case, it seemed John's steady breaths had ceased. There has to be a child. "Well?" the detective whispered, hope fluttering through his chest.

Silence.

"John?"

Nothing.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock glared at his flat mate for being silent. "John, what are you…" The words slipped from the detective's mouth upon seeing the way his flat mate was staring at the ultrasound screen.

"Oh my… bloody hell."

"What? John, what is it? John." Heart thudding erratically in his chest, Sherlock craned his neck, desperately trying to get a glimpse of what his flat mate was seeing. "John!"

"Unbelievable. That's… it's… hmm." A small, amazed smile tugged at one corner of the doctor's lips. "Look, Sherlock," John laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. Still staring himself, the doctor turned the screen so Sherlock could see. "Look."

Breath halting to a painful stop in his throat, Sherlock stared at the ultrasound screen and suddenly he understood. "John," he whispered, amazed he'd managed to speak the words, "there's two." Expression slowly transforming to one of confusion, the detective repeated, "there's two."

Nodding and laughing rather hysterically, John just continued to stare at the screen. "It seems our earlier mis-trials decided to pay us back what we'd missed," he stated, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh my..." Expression seemingly frozen into a rather stricken one of confusion, Sherlock continued to the stare at the screen, which continued to project the image of two barely-formed lives, just little splotches of black, each wrapped in their own oval of grey. Two lives, two separate babies. The detective suddenly felt as if he would never breath again upon coming to the understanding that the image he was seeing, was coming from inside him. "John, there's two."

Suddenly feeling as if the nausea had returned full swing, Sherlock set his head against the back of he cot, feeling as if his neck was now incapable of supporting its own weight, and merely continued to stare at the screen, lips parted as he stared at the two circles of grey. His children. Not one, but two of them. Two children at once. Inside him. "Two babies," the detective whispered out loud.

Laughing, as these seemed to be the only words his friend was now capable of forming, John nodded. "Sherlock Holmes," the doctor stated, now unable to contain his grin, "we are pregnant with twins."


	20. And So It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's rather long, so I hope it can make up for the lack of updates! Thanks, everyone! =)

"I need to stop somewhere before we go home," Sherlock stated plainly as he and John piled into the cab, having just left the hospital.

"Oh. Okay, then. Where are we going?"

"Not you. Me."

"Oh." Frowning slightly, John tried to hide his hurt as he heard Sherlock mutter an address to the cabbie, one he was unfamiliar with. "Where are you going, then?"

 

 

"What do I do?" Sherlock asked softly as he sat in brother's library, the smell of books overwhelming his overly-sensitive nostrils.

"I don't follow," Mycroft replied with a frown, already groggy from having been woken at such a late hour.

"There's two of them, Mycroft! Two babies," Sherlock exclaimed, fingers exploding in a motion of frustration. Sighing and regretting his outburst, the detective enclosed his fingers around one another and settled them in his lap. "Twins."

Eyes widening in understanding, Mycroft nodded slowly, contemplating this new information. "Why is this not good news?"

Rolling his eyes and releasing a sound of frustration, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his raven curls. "Do you not see? There are so many factors to consider! This is uncharted territory, Mycroft. Twins open up an entire world of complications, especially for someone like me. We do not even know yet if this pregnancy is viable. I mean, two babies is an entirely different playing field, with it's own set of problems and rules, in addition to the issues of carrying one baby. I don't even know if my body is capable of housing two babies for nearly nine months." Sherlock couldn't help but shiver as something—a paternal flutter?—raced down the length of his spine. Shaking away the sensation, the detective turned his gaze to his brother, who seemed to be contemplating.

"Well…" Mycroft raised his brows and moved his lips into a position resembling a momentary frown. "Shall I tell you what you want to hear or what I actually think?" Upon receiving a positively icy glare, Mycroft heaved a sigh. "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I think." Taking a seat across from his younger brother, the government official crossed his fingers into one another and then set his linked hands atop his middle. "This Sherlock," Mycroft started, "is scared Sherlock."

There was an immediate huff of disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm not," Mycroft answered with a stern gaze. Upon seeing his younger brother's silver eyes pause where they were glancing off to the left, the government official continued. "You're frightened. And ashamed. This is what you've wanted, and now you've got it, and now you're terrified," he continued matter-of-factly. "And so you're reacting in the only way you know how: panic. You've never dealt with fear well, Sherlock. As is evidenced by your past actions, you avoid it whenever possible." Ever the Holmes, Mycroft carefully eyed his brother, watching for any flash of recognition.

I know I'm not given to outbursts of kindness or…" The government official raised a brow. "But it seems to me, given your attachment to Lyla, you should be overjoyed that you'll be having two babies rather than one. I mean, of course twins would add their own set of complications to a pregnancy, but… do they not also add their own wonders? Food for thought." Wrapping his robe around himself, Mycroft stood and padded out of the room, in search of a drink.

His brother's words lingering slightly in the room, it was now Sherlock's turn to contemplate. Pursing his lips and glancing to make sure Mycroft was not returning, the detective dropped his gaze to his middle for the first time since discovering about the pregnancy.

It's really no different from having a single baby, the detective reminded himself, understanding the logic. The body will cope and adjust as needed. Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, Sherlock suddenly realized his thumb was running back and forth over the fabric covering his middle. Despite the fact that he knew it was impossible, the detective suddenly felt as if he could feel the two lives growing inside them; as if his pulse was beating in time with their indistinguishable heartbeats.

A small flutter danced through Sherlock's chest, settling warmly in his middle. Closing his eyes, the detective pulled the memories from his mind of what it had felt like when Lyla had shifted in his middle; the warmth that had flooded his veins each time he felt her move, the proof of the life he was creating.

"Dear God… There's two of you." A laugh. "I know I keep saying that, but… two is an incredibly large number when referencing the number of lives one is going to be making inside of them," Sherlock murmured to himself, flattening a palm against his middle. Exhaling as he began to come to grips with the thought that that were now two human beings inside him, Sherlock opened his eyes to find Mycroft was leaning against the doorway, a proud smirk on his lips.

"Good. Glad we got that sorted."

 

 

 

 

Sherlock sat completely still the entire cab ride back to the flat. There was no nervous twitch of fingers, or absent toying with the hem of his Belstaff; his fingers sat perfectly still where they were resting in his lap, not even crossed. The detective merely stared out the window, mouth pressed into a soft line.

John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes, quite concerned about how silent and still his flat mate had been upon finding out about he was carrying not one but two children. Deciding it was probably best not to say anything, however, the doctor merely watched the familiar scenes as they passed by outside the cab, counting the buildings until they would be home. Soon, however, there were no more buildings to count and the street lights were refracting off the metal plates signaling they'd reached the flat. 221B.

Daring a glance at his flat mate, John found Sherlock was still gazing out the window, as if the scenery was still moving. Clearing his throat, the doctor murmured, "Sherlock? Sherlock, we're home." The doctor knew he'd pulled the detective from the deepest recesses of his mind when Sherlock physically started at the sound of his voice. "We're home," he repeated carefully.

Blinking several times, as if to clear his mind, Sherlock's gaze focused out John's window. He nodded. "Indeed. It seems we are." Silently opening his door, Sherlock stepped into the dark night, coat billowing gracefully behind him as he did so.

Following suit, John stepped out of the cab, tossing some cash behind him towards the driver. The doctor hurried up the steps to the front door and followed his flat mate into the flat, still finding he was unable to get a gauge on the mystery that was Sherlock's mind.

Very aware of John's presence trailing behind him, Sherlock pulled off his jacket and scarf as he ascended the stairs, throwing them over one of the kitchen chairs as he reached the landing. "Are you going to bed, then?"

John glanced at his watch, nearly groaning when he caught sight of the time. "Oh yes."

With a nod of agreement, Sherlock turned on his heel and padded into the bedroom.

Eventually, both flat mates were dressed in their pajamas and crawling into the bed they now shared, a fact that had become so commonplace it was not questioned.

"So then," John murmured once he was properly settled. "Care to tell me what's going in that genius mind of yours that's got you so flustered?"

"Nothing," Sherlock answered almost immediately.

A scoff. "Nice. Real mature, Sherlock," John muttered sarcastically. "I'm just trying to be—"

"No, you misunderstood," Sherlock interrupted softly.

His rant stalling to a stop, John turned a confused gaze to his flat mate, who was gazing at the ceiling, a hand draped lazily on top of his chest.

The detective continued, knowing John would not catch on without an extensive explanation. "It's silent. My mind, that is." Sherlock eyes flitted back and forth as they scanned the ceiling. "It's completely silent. There are no equations, no riddles trying to solve themselves… It's completely still." The detective closed his eyes and released a long, airy sigh, reveling in the numbing sensation of his quiet mind.

John couldn't help but notice how, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, lips parted, eyes closed, it almost looked as if Sherlock experiencing great pleasure. A dark blush quickly rose on the doctor's cheeks and he soon chased the thought away with a shake of his head.

"It must be wonderful."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Having your mind like this all the time; so silent and placid."

Swallowing the string of profanities that were threatening to spew forth, John resorted to an eye roll. "Lovely."

Sensing his friend's sarcasm, Sherlock opened his eyes. "I did not mean to offend."

"And that's the sad part." Chuckling, if out of exasperation than anything else, John collapsed against the bed and covered his head with a pillow. "Welcome to the world of being average."

Chuckling deeply, Sherlock slid a hand down the length of his chest and then tucked it under the hem of his shirt; the pads of his fingers rested perfectly against the planes of his stomach. "John, we've created two lives," he murmured, somehow utterly amazed that just below his fingertips, two lives, a perfect mix of him and John, were fighting for life, undergoing an incredible transformation.

Removing the pillow from his head, it was now John's turn to stare at the ceiling. We've created two lives. It seemed that, although the doctor had recognized that the two babies Sherlock was carrying were his children too, he had not come to the realization that the two barely formed lives had been formed using a part of him. "My God… We did, didn't we? I can't believe we did that."

Now laughing, Sherlock rolled onto his side so he was facing John's stricken form. "It's quite a realization, isn't it?" the detective taunted with a fond smirk. "And you're not even the one carrying them. Oh… God."

"What?"

"I don't even want to think about how much energy that's going to take."

There was a pause. And then suddenly, John was laughing, attempting to muffle the sound with the back of his hand. "It's true," the doctor agreed after a few minutes' time, when he was finally capable of forming words again. "It is going to take a lot of energy. And sleep. And food."

Sherlock groaned. "As I said. Energy… Insufferable."

Chuckling to himself, John shook his head and, after a few moments of gazing up at the ceiling, amazement still flooding his system, turned his gaze to Sherlock. "You know, we're going to have to… Oh." The doctor soon quieted upon finding Sherlock had fallen asleep, lips parted just slightly, a hand draped over his middle.

Smiling fondly at his slumbering flat mate, John rolled over and soon followed suit.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke the next morning with a start, both hands resting atop his belly. The events of the previous day suddenly flooding his memory, the detective closed his eyes as he realized his mind was once again racing with thoughts and possibilities; the brief moment of calm was over.

Closing his eyes as he suddenly wished he could roll over and go back to sleep, Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he allowed his hands to rise and fall where they were settled atop his stomach, moving with each of his steady breaths. Spreading his fingers so they covered more of his stomach, the detective could just barely detect the hint of a curve beneath his fingertips. The thought sent a thrill of excitement racing down his spine. An experiment he'd been working on for so long, hoping for with such ferocity was finally a reality, the proof of which was the barely-there curve of his belly.

He was pregnant.

As if on cue, the detective suddenly felt the waves of nausea he'd been spared from throughout the night begin to tear away at his insides. Careful not to wake John, Sherlock silently rolled out of bed and then ran into the bathroom.

 

 

 

 

After several rounds of dry-heaving and sitting and then dry-heaving again, Sherlock felt his stomach begin to calm. Breathing a sigh of relief, the detective padded out of the bathroom, running a hand through his raven curls. After a quick glance towards his flat mate, making sure he was still asleep, Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown and then made his way into the kitchen, where he started the tea running.

The detective glanced at the time. Frowning, as Lyla was usually up by now, the detective abandoned the tea maker and then made his way up his daughter's room. With a soft knock, Sherlock opened the door with a whispered, "Lyla? Love, it's me."

"Is okay, Da'ey," the little girl replied, also in a whisper. "I is up."

"Oh." With a fond smile, Sherlock stepped into Lyla's room to find the little girl huddled under her covers, a teddy bear clutched to her chest. Taking note of his daughter's heavy eyes, Sherlock pulled the rocking chair over to the head of her bead and took a seat. "How are you feeling this morning, hmm?" he asked gently, pushing away a few stray curls that had fallen into the little girl's eyes.

"I is okay," Lyla replied with a sigh and a yawn. "But does hurt."

Sherlock frowned. "Where, love?" Lyla pointed to her forehead. "Ah." Suspecting his daughter had a headache, probably due to the lack of fluids and food in her, Sherlock smiled sympathetically. "Well, how about we get you something to eat, hmm?" the detective asked in whisper.

"Okays, Da'ey." With a nod of her head, Lyla released the teddy bear from her grasp and waited patiently until she was gathered in her father's arms.

"There we go…" Supporting his daughter's weight in his arms, as she was still practically asleep, Sherlock slowly made his way down the stairs, not wanting to jostle her too much. Now in the kitchen, the detective cradled Lyla against his side, holding her up with one arm, while he used his free hand to turn off the tea maker and pour himself a cup. "Would you care for a sip?" he asked in a whisper, leaning against the kitchen table.

"What is, Da'ey?" Lyla replied, also in a whisper.

With a chuckle, Sherlock set the cup on the table and gently transferred Lyla so she was resting in the dip of his almost non-existent waist. "Tea," he answered gently, once again picking up his cup. "Would you like some?"

Lyla nodded, frowning when it clearly hurt her head further. "Ouchies…"

"I know… I'm very sorry, my love. Here." Keeping a firm grip on the cup, as his daughter's two-year-old fingers were still rather questionable when it came to grip, Sherlock held the tea to Lyla's lips, allowing her a sip. Upon tasting the liquid, however, the little girl made a face and shook her head back and forth.

Chuckling sadly, Sherlock pulled the tea cup away and took a sip. "My apologies. How about we just stick with water, hmm?"

Eyes heavy, Lyla rested her head against her father's shoulder and nodded slowly.

"Very good, then." Keeping Lyla firmly settled against him, Sherlock managed to find a sippy cup, which he soon filled with water and then offered it to the sleepy little girl. "Here you are."

"'Tanks, Dae'y." Head heavy, and drinking from the sippy cup, Lyla's eyes slid closed as she rested her head against the perch that was her father's shoulder.

Sherlock merely hummed his reply, a smile quirking over his cupid's bow lips.

Enjoying the feel of his daughter's steady weight in his arms, the detective, drink in hand, padded over to the couch.

 

 

 

 

Several hours later, John awoke and padded into the sitting to find Sherlock, kneading several fingers into his temple, seated on the floor with Lyla, a bagel in hand. The doctor watched fondly as his flat mate took a bite of the plain bread and then tore off a small bit with slender fingers. "More?" the detective asked quietly, offering the bite.

Nodding, Lyla opened her mouth.

With a fond smile, Sherlock placed the piece of bagel on his daughter's tongue, raising a brow when she hummed her approval. "Morning, John," the detective also hummed, finishing the bagel in one bite.

"Good morning, you two."

There was a small gasp, soon followed by a triumphant, "Papa!" Oblivious to Sherlock and John's frozen forms, Lyla pushed herself into a standing position and then toddled over to the doctor, arms outstretched, grinning sweetly.

"Did you hear that, too?" John murmured, absentmindedly pulling Lyla into his arms.

A small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Sherlock nodded, shaking himself out of his frozen stupor. "I most certainly did." Also pushing himself into a standing position, the detective padded over to his flat mate and brushed the back of his knuckle over Lyla's cheek, much to her delight. "Congratulations, John," he murmured, attempting to conceal a smile.

The doctor merely nodded, mouth hanging slightly open. "That's amazing."

Laughing, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're so trivial, John," he chuckled, which earned him a fierce scowl. Once again rolling his eyes, the detective apologized and then glided into the kitchen, robe billowing gracefully behind him.

Witholding an eye roll of his own, John turned his attention back to Lyla, who had found particular interest in the collar of his jumper, still oblivious to the joy she had caused; she seemed to be intensely studying the fabric as she rolled it back and forth between her tiny fingertips.

"Quite entertained, are we?" John chuckled, pressing a fond kiss to the little girl's temple. "You take after your father, then," he added in a fond whisper before he, too made his way into the kitchen. The doctor frowned slightly upon seeing Sherlock, palms planted on either side of the sink, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. "Okay?" he asked, reaching into the fridge to grab fruit for Lyla.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, replying with a terse nod of his head. "Good, I'm fine, yes." With a quick shake of his head, the detective's eyes blinked open. Turning his attention to Lyla, a smile once again danced over Sherlock's cupid's bow lips. "What?" he asked upon catching sight of John's skeptical raised brow. The detective heaved a sigh. "I'm fine, John," he huffed, raising a brow of his own. Wrapping his slender fingers around the cup of tea he'd poured for himself, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his daughter's temple and then took a sip of the beverage. As the liquid slid down his throat, the detective heaved a sigh, grimacing at the foreign taste of the usually-familiar liquid. _Insufferable… Bloody hormones. ___

__"Problems?" John asked as he began cutting the fruit into small pieces, having heard his flat mate's sigh._ _

__"Doesn't taste right."_ _

__"What's that?"_ _

__"The tea," Sherlock muttered, dumping the rest of the liquid down the sink with a frustrated flick of his wrist._ _

__John merely smiled sympathetically before taking the small bits of fruit he'd prepared and transferring them into a small bowl. "Would you care to feed her?"_ _

__In response, Sherlock merely held open his arms, into which John transferred Lyla and then the small bowl of fruit._ _

__"He'o, Daddy," the little girl whispered, resting her head against her father's shoulder._ _

__In greeting, Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to Lyla's temple. Taking a seat at the cluttered kitchen table, the detective pushed away his microscope and several loose papers and then settled his daughter on his thigh. "Let's see what we have here," he drawled playfully, peeking into the bowl. "We have some strawberries… some blueberries… and a bit of orange." Raising a brow, Sherlock turned his attention back to his daughter and then asked, "Which would you care to begin with?"_ _

__Smiling bashfully, Lyla reached her small, slightly haphazard fingers into the bowl and pulled out a few strawberries and blueberries._ _

__Sherlock chuckled as the little girl shoved the food (and a few fingers) eagerly into her mouth. The detective sighed suddenly as he felt his stomach begin to churn once again, the familiar tendrils of nausea beginning to grip his insides. Hoping to simply ignore the unpleasant sensation, Sherlock shook his head and absentmindedly tightened his grip around his daughter's middle._ _

__Upon suddenly catching a hint of the sickly-sweet smell of the fruit Lyla was munching on, Sherlock felt his stomach lurch. "I'm sorry, John, I…" Unable to finish, Sherlock pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. Somehow managing to quickly and gently transfer Lyla into John's semi-waiting arms, the detective hurried from the kitchen._ _

__Gazing sympathetically after his friend's retreating form, John turned his attention to Lyla, who was gazing confusedly out the kitchen doorway._ _

__"Well," John mumbled, sensing Lyla's confusion. "I suppose we should just…" Taking a seat at the table where Sherlock's form had been a few moments ago, the doctor situated his tiny flat mate on his knee._ _

__A frown now creasing her precious features, Lyla shifted uncomfortably in John's lap. "Da'y es... uh'kay?" she mumbled worriedly, attempting to get a glance of the doorway over John's tall shoulder._ _

__"Well… he's..." Not quite sure how to proceed, and not wanting to without his flat mate present, John stood and began shifting his weight from one foot to another. "Well, Daddy's a bit sick, Lyla. He's... got a bit of a..." As if on cue, Sherlock padded back into the room, his tread slower and heavier than when he left. "What are you mumbling about now, John?" he muttered, the irritation clear in his voice as he ran several slender fingers through his raven curls._ _

__"Lyla was just wanting to know if you're okay," John answered, raising a brow. Upon seeing the panic that quickly pooled in his flat mate's silver irises, the doctor continued. "But I told her you were just sick."_ _

__Sherlock's brows tugged together confusedly._ _

__"Tell you later," John mouthed. "Just go with it."_ _

__"Is sicks, Da'ey?" Lyla mumbled worriedly, chewing on her bottom lip._ _

__Gaze suddenly softening, Sherlock's lips parted slightly as he gazed at his clearly concerned daughter. With a bittersweet chuckle, the detective took Lyla from John's arms and then settled her against his chest. "Yes, love. But I'm alright," he reassured softly and with a warm smile. "I'm just a tad sick. It'll go away in time." Not a complete lie. Feeling the waves of nausea once again begin to grip him, but not wanting to worry Lyla further, Sherlock focused on his breathing, on the steady and familiar feel of his daughter's weight against him. In... Out... In. "I'm fine," the detective added in a whisper, though even he was not sure if he was reassuring Lyla or himself._ _

__"... Uh'kay, Daddy," Lyla murmured skeptically, lips scrunching together to form a mix between a pout and a scowl._ _

__Laughing at the expression, Sherlock ignored the churning in his stomach and pressed a kiss to the little girl's cheek. "You're quite precious, I hope you know that," he added with a chuckle, before once again taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Now, then... How about we finish this fruit, hmm?"_ _

__Skepticism soon fading away, Lyla nodded eagerly, having forgotten the fruit. "Mess!"_ _

__"I believe the word you're looking for is 'yes,'" Sherlock laughed, grabbing several pieces of chopped fruit between his fingertips and offering them to Lyla. "But from the looks of your fingers and shirt I'd have to agree with you nonetheless."_ _

__

__

__

__

__

__"So, then," Sherlock whispered several hours later from where he was seated in his chair, legs crossed, eyes closed. "Why don't we want to tell Lyla just yet?" he asked, opening his eyes long enough to glance down at the little girl, who had fallen asleep on the living room floor and then glance back at John, who was seated across from him._ _

__Heaving a silent sigh, the doctor quirked his lips to the side, trying to find the proper words. "First of all," he began with an exhale, "the concept of pregnancy is very confusing for young children; they need evidence." John gestured to Sherlock's still-flat middle. "And currently there is none. Also, as we well know by now, Lyla is quite terrible at keeping secrets. And this is a pretty big one we need kept for a little while longer, wouldn't you agree?"_ _

__Sherlock merely hummed his agreement before closing his eyes again._ _

__"Also," John continued, "we don't want her to see you getting sick, and then immediately tell her it's because of a new baby, because then she automatically develops a negative connotation towards the pregnancy itself; if it's making you sick, then it can't possibly be good... Do you see?"_ _

__'Yes. Very logical... Impressive, John. You should be like this more often," Sherlock murmured, oblivious to the glare he was receiving. "I agree we should wait."_ _

__"Oh, brilliant," the doctor muttered sarcastically._ _

__"Yes, quite."_ _

__Giving up on his oblivious flat mate, John pushed himself out of his chair, and made to pick up Lyla. "I'll just take her up to bed, then."_ _

__"Oh. No, let me." Lithe form moving faster than his friend's, Sherlock quickly slid from his chair and scooped his daughter's slumbering form into his arms. "Besides, you've tucked her in far more than I have," the detective provided as a weak argument, soon followed by a sly smile._ _

__Raising his hands in mock surrender, John chuckled quietly, "Be my guest."_ _

__Sherlock nodded his thanks and then, shifting Lyla's little form to one side of his body, began making his way up the stairs to her room. "Goodnight, love," he whispered gently as he tucked the little girl under her covers. "Things will get better soon. Promise." After pressing a soft kiss to his daughter's temple, Sherlock silently let himself from the room and then made his way towards his room. While walking through the hallway, the detective heard the sound of running water. _Damn you, John Watson._ Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed a breath upon realizing John was in the shower.__

____As he had been hoping to take one, himself, Sherlock snatched his robe of the back of the bedroom door with a little too much fervor and then frustratedly wrapped it around himself. The detective then threw himself onto the bed, as a small child would. His lithe form soon froze, however, upon suddenly remembering he was carrying precious cargo. He had almost forgotten._ _ _ _

____As his robe had fallen open, Sherlock, with gentle fingers, once again placed the fabric over his middle, as if to protect the little beings residing there from harm. Clearly content with the arrangement, Sherlock settled himself into the familiar folds of his bed, and, intent on waiting for John, intertwined his fingers into one another and then folded them atop his chest. "And so it begins," the detective murmured to no one in particular. Steel-blue eyes studying the ceiling, Sherlock felt his eyelids begin to droop just slightly with each blink. "Look what you two are already doing to me," he chuckled with a half-hearted attempt at scolding. "Hmm." Allowing his eyes to slide shut, Sherlock's fingers relaxed just slightly where they were resting atop his chest._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____ _ _

____ _ _

____ _ _

____Hair still wet from the shower he'd just finished, but dressed fully in his pajamas, John discarded his towel and padded into Sherlock's bedroom. The doctor suddenly realized his flat mate had been fast asleep upon seeing the way the detective's entire form had jumped just slightly as he entered the room. "Sorry, mate," he apologized quietly._ _ _ _

____"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, raising an annoyed brow. "You should be."_ _ _ _

____With a fond eye roll, John crawled into bed and then clicked off the lamp resting on his side table. "Hopefully you'll actually be able to get some sleep tonight."_ _ _ _

____"Mmm. Hopefully… Occasionally sleep is… inviting," Sherlock murmured softly, hints of sleep creeping into his deep voice._ _ _ _

____"Welcome to being average," John teased into the darkness. "It's nice to see you lowered to my level," he continued sarcastically. "How does it feel, hmm?"_ _ _ _

____Silence._ _ _ _

____"… Sherlock?"_ _ _ _

____"Hmm."_ _ _ _

____Eyes soon adjusting to the darkness, John squinted at his friend's resting form and noticed Sherlock's head had lolled slightly to the side; the doctor only had a view of some of the detective's unruly curls and his defined jawline. John took note of the steady rising and falling of his friend's chest, and the way his fingers rested lazily atop his middle. Realizing Sherlock was fast asleep, John smiled slightly and, realizing he felt rather warm, gently shoved the rest of the covers towards his flat mate's slumbering form. "And so it begins," he whispered into his pillow, the sound of Sherlock's deep and steady breaths lulling him into his own slumber._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, now that we're finally back into the Mpreg realm, I just want to thank everyone who has been with this story since the beginning. A few days ago, I checked when I first started this fic., and realized that, as of December 15, 2014, I'd been writing this story for over a year. And that is so incredible, so thank you to all who have supported me with your kind words and reviews; I love reading them!
> 
> Also, one quick note: due to the announcement in the last chapter, I would love to know what combination of sexes you guys are rooting for! As I do not yet know myself whether I want two boys or a boy and girl, etc., I would love to see what you guys want!


	21. Peas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there everyone! It's so nice to once again be writing in the m-preg realm. I hope everyone has had a lovely summer thus far, and for those who are on break, I hope you all enjoy the rest of it!
> 
> Thank you to everyone following and reading, I could not do this without you! Hope you all enjoy this chapter. =)

**7 weeks**

"You're sure you'll be alright?"

"John!" Sherlock cried from where he was seated cross-legged on the sitting room floor with Lyla. "For the fourth time, I will be perfectly fine. And frankly," he added a brow raised, "you're being quite ridiculous. I'm pregnant, not made of glass."

"W'ht, Da'ey?" Lyla chirped suddenly. "What is page-ment?"

"Nevermind, love. We'll discuss it later, hmm?"

"Oh. 'Kay." Clearly content with this answer, the little girl went back to playing with her father's fingers.

"Go to work, John. I'm fine, we're all fine," Sherlock added frustratedly, shooting his flat mate a dithering look. "I'm not a child that needs to be babied."

"Right, right. Sorry." Shaking his head and pressing his lips into a thin line, John—rather forcefully—tugged on his coat. "I'm off, then. Goodbye, Lyla. I love you."

Too distracted by Sherlock's fingers, Lyla merely hummed her goodbye.

"Right." Lips twitching ever so slightly to the side, John tensed his hands and then headed down the stairs.

Upon hearing the click of the front door latching, which signaled John's absence, Sherlock heaved a relieved sigh. "Finally!" Gently removing his fingers from Lyla's own smaller ones, the detective grasped his tiny daughter under her armpits and then toted her into the kitchen. "We've got some cases to work on, haven't we?"

Giggling in delight, Lyla nodded in agreement as Sherlock tugged off her shirt.

"Right, then. I have a very special case for you today, Lyla," Sherlock began, tossing away his daughter's discarded shirt. "And that is the Case of the Curious Substance."

A gasp. "Ist my favormorite, Da'ey!" Lyla declared in a whisper, as if worried the 'case' would go away should she speak too loudly.

"Yes, I know. Which is precisely why I chose it." Fetching a towel and some wax paper, Sherlock cleared away a spot on the cluttered kitchen table, spread the wax paper over it, and then situated Lyla in her high chair. "Now, then. Are you ready for your curious substance?" the detective asked, the playfulness clear in his voice.

Lyla clapped her hands together in response.

"I suspected as much. Wait just one moment." Tucking the high chair close to the table so as to prevent Lyla from falling out, Sherlock quickly rummaged through the cupboards until he found a measuring cup and a bag of flour. "Right, then. Here we are." The detective spooned several cup-fulls of flour onto the wax paper. "And there we are." He nodded towards the flour. "Off to work, then."

Grinning in delight, Lyla clapped her hands together.

Eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched the little girl poke and prod tentatively—but joyfully—at the mounds of flour, Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to his daughter's cheek and then took a seat of his own.

"Is buth on ah case, Da'ey!" Lyla squealed as plumes of flour flew up around her, coating her skin in a thin layer of the white substance.

"Indeed we are," Sherlock chuckled, grinning at his messy daughter. "We are both on the case." The detective turned his attention to his microscope, silvery gaze flicking back and forth to check on Lyla every few moments.

 

 

 

 

**To: Sherlock at 9:17 a.m.**

**Sorry again**

**To: John Watson at 9:17 a.m.**

**Yes, I know, John. You already said as much.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 9:17 a.m.**

**Twice, actually.**

**SH**

**To: Sherlock at 9:20 a.m.**

**Yes I know, thank you. I just dont want you to think I dont trust you. Or think that I don't think you're more**

**than capable of handling yourself.**

**To: John Watson at 9:21 a.m.**

**John, you're being redundant.**

**SH**

**To: Sherlock at 9:21 a.m.**

**Right. Course I am. Have a good day**

 

Placing his mobile down with a little more fervor than necessary, John silently scolded himself for being so ridiculous. He knew he was overreacting; after all, with Lyla's pregnancy he hadn't been nearly as nervous. Rolling his eyes at himself, the doctor subconsciously turned his mobile over and through his fingers. Jumping slightly when the phone chirped and buzzed simultaneously against his fingertips, John heaved a sigh, knowing full well the contents of the message he had just received would be snarky and snide, per the typical Sherlock. The doctor clicked open the message.

 

**To: John Watson at 9:30 a.m.**

**Thank you.**

**SH**

 

As he gazed at the text message, pondering its many meanings, John realized that to someone who did not know Sherlock as well as him, the text he had just read would seem snide—unkind, even. But as a result of the years he'd spent living with the detective, John knew such simple words carried great meaning and sentiment, something the doctor also knew Sherlock struggled greatly with.

Lips pressing into a smile of appreciation, John responded simply.

**To: Sherlock at 9:31 a.m.**

**You're welcome.**

 

 

 

 

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock switched off the microscope, having just solved the case he was working on. "Insufferable," the detective muttered, crossing over to Lyla. "So painfully obvious." With a huff of breath, Sherlock silently and quickly scolded himself for having spent so much time on such an easy case. The detective plucked a very flour-covered Lyla out of the highchair, set her on the ground, and then, lightening his tone, repeated, "So obvious, wasn't it?"

Suddenly catching sight of the utter mess Lyla had created on her half of the table, Sherlock's lips parted slightly as he gazed at the discarded flour. "Right... Flour. Not one of my most intelligent ideas." The detective turned to gaze at his daughter, who seemed to be staring at the mess with a sense of pride. "Well," Sherlock sighed, "at least you enjoyed yourself."

"Yep!" the little girl agreed with a firm nod of her head.

"Excellent. But now I do believe it is most certainly time for a bath."

Eyes suddenly widening, Lyla turned to her father and scowled. "No, Da'ey. I nots wants."

Sherlock's brows suddenly raised, as his daughter was not usually one to talk back. "Lyla, you are filthy. You _must_ take a bath. This is not negotiable," Sherlock argued, now only raising one brow.

"I nots like it, Da'ey," Lyla returned with a frown.

"You love baths."

"Nots."

"Yes. You do. I can assure you, I would not lie about something so trivial; too much effort." Keeping his eyebrow raised, Sherlock lowered himself down until he was at eye level with his daughter. "I promise. You know I don't lie to you."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Lyla stood her ground and once again shook her head.

Lowering his brow, Sherlock nodded. "Very well." Moving with swift movements, Sherlock grabbed the towel he'd fetched earlier, quickly wrapped Lyla in it, and then toted her into the bathroom.

Now rather throwing a fit and with tears streaming down her reddening cheeks, Lyla desperately attempted to squirm out of her father's grasp as she was carried into the bathroom.

After calmly shutting the bathroom door behind him, Sherlock set the bundle that was his daughter down on the floor and then, as he allowed her to untangle herself, started the water running. The detective turned around to find Lyla had disentangled herself from the towel and, with tears still falling from her eyes, was staring up at him, bottom lip stuck out, arms once again crossed over one another.

"Ah. I see. We're going that route, then."

A nod.

"And so the terrible two's begin. We were so close." Allowing the tub to fill up with water, Sherlock knelt down on one knee in front of his scowling daughter and, in a tone stern enough to get and keep the little girl's attention began, "Lyla, I am not going to do this. And neither are you. Throwing this tantrum is illogical, and will most certainly get you nowhere. You are filthy and I am not going to let you track flour all over the flat. Therefore, you must take a bath. As I said. This is not negotiable. So, the way I see it, you have two options: you can either stop this silly tantrum and go willingly into the bath, which I assure you will make the whole ordeal far more enjoyable. Or, you can continue being angry, in which case I will _still_ give you a bath, one which will be very long, drawn out, and in which there will be no bubbles." Sherlock could practically hear a gasp escape Lyla's lips. The detective once again raised a brow. "Which'll it be?"

No longer crying, but still frowning dutifully, Lyla seemed to ponder her predicament. "Uh-kay," she sighed after a few moments. "I do ah bath."

Sherlock nodded. "Thought so." Standing up, the detective offered a hand. "Are you done now?" A nod. "Excellent. Then let's get you clean."

 

 

 

 

Once Lyla had been properly bathed, washed, dried, and redressed, the two made their way back into the kitchen. Releasing his daughter's hand so as to place both hands on his hips, Sherlock stared at the flour-covered table. "No. Most certainly not one my best decisions." Heaving a sigh, Sherlock glanced down and his lips quirked into a smile when he found Lyla now gazing at the scene with disdain, her expression one John frequently used with him. _So she's picking up on familial social cues and social mannerisms_ , the detective noted with a surge of pride. _And she's taking after John. Good._

Pride still fluttering in his chest, Sherlock nodded towards the kitchen. "Are you ready to clean this mess up?"

Determination clearly swelling her tiny chest, Lyla nodded her approval. Sherlock once again noted the likeness to John with a smile. "Right. I'll get the vacuum, you get the trash can, yes?"

"'Kays."

"Oh! And remember: working the case with me is our secret, right?" Suddenly grinning, Lyla nodded and whispered, "No tells."

A wink "There's my girl."

Toddling away, Lyla headed off in search of the trash can.

Keeping a watchful eye on his daughter, Sherlock hastily tucked away the chemicals he'd been using for his experiment in a hidden compartment under the kitchen sink; he'd had it installed when he was pregnant with Lyla, so as to continue experiments without John's knowledge. He shut the cabinet door and then turned to find Lyla had dutifully returned with the trash can. "Ah. Excellent. Very good job, love. Now to erase the evidence, right?"

Grin suddenly turning slightly mischievous, Lyla nodded and then whispered, "'Es, Da'ey."

Sherlock's lips pursed into a chuckling smile. _With just enough of me in there, as well._

 

 

 

 

Later that night, after John had returned from work, the small family of three sat in the sitting room.

"Oh. Someone's tired," John chuckled, nodding towards Lyla.

Pulling his eyes away from the case file that was currently strewn about the table in front of him, Sherlock glanced to his left to find his small daughter sitting on the floor, her head in a constant state of falling and then quickly rising again as she fought sleep.

"What did you two do today that has her so tired out?" the doctor teased.

Ignoring his friend's question, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. Setting down the papers that had been grasped between his slender fingers, a smile graced the detective's cupid's bow lips. "I've got her," he chuckled fondly.

"Sure?"

Sherlock merely nodded his reply before abandoning the table. Taking a seat in front of his sleepy daughter, the detective chuckled deeply when she shuddered awake, eyes wide. "Hello, love."

"Oh." The surprise quickly fading from her blue eyes, Lyla's eyelids once again began to droop closed. "Seepy, Da'ey," she mumbled, haphazardly shoving herself to her feet. "Mm-hmm. Seepy." No longer bothering to keep her eyes open, the little girl stumbled forward, arms outstretched in search of Sherlock's familiar form. "Da'ey," she sighed upon crawling into the detective's lap. Yawning, Lyla promptly curled herself into a ball and then fell asleep.

Raising an amused brow, Sherlock shared a quick glance with his flat mate before carefully scooping his daughter's curled up form out of his lap and into his arms. "There we are." Daughter safely in hand, Sherlock straightened, and was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. Pressing his eyes shut, the detective hugged Lyla closer to his chest as he waited for the uncomfortable sensation to pass.

"Okay?" John asked, setting down the newspaper he'd been reading.

A curt nod. "Fine."

"Sick again?"

"Indeed… So infuriating. Why is it so much worse this time around?" Sherlock mumbled, as if to himself.

"Well, there's two babies this time around," John sighed sympathetically. "That means double the hormones, double the caloric intake, double the rest, double the—" John was interrupted by a loud groan emanating from his flat mate's lips.

'Yes, thank you," Sherlock sighed, shifting Lyla so as to free a hand to rub circles into his temple. "Point made." Lips pursing together, Sherlock once again opened his eyes, ignoring the overwhelming sensation to vomit. "Intolerable… But logical. Right." Taking several deep breaths in and out of his nose, Sherlock nodded down to Lyla and then mouthed, "I'll be back."

"Right." Smiling sympathetically, John nodded and then returned his attention to the newspaper.

Cradling Lyla's sleeping form close, Sherlock slipped from the room and then slowly made his way up the stairs. "Ah. There you go, little one," the detective whispered as he tenderly placed Lyla in her crib. Sherlock felt a paternal flutter rush down the length of his spine as he pushed a few stray curls off the small girl's forehead. The flutter then settled warmly in the pit of his stomach as the detective realized that in a little more than half a year he would have two more children to tuck in and kiss goodnight.

The flutter was soon overshadowed, however, by a sudden sense of exhaustion. Yawning with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock glanced around the room and caught sight of the rocking chair. Heaving a sigh at how impossibly appealing it looked, Sherlock crossed to the chair and took a seat. _Only for a moment_ , he promised, allowing his eyes to fall shut. After a brief stinging sensation beneath his eyelids, Sherlock suddenly felt the hours of sleep he'd been deprived of the previous nights assault his senses. "I hope you're happy with yourselves," he muttered, though the fondness in the detective's voice was clear.

Lacing his fingers together, Sherlock settled his hands against his middle, secretly thrilled by the thought of two little beings forming just inches below his fingertips. _Only for a moment_ , he promised once again.

 

 

 

It wasn't until he'd completely finished reading his paper that John realized he hadn't heard Sherlock return from Lyla's room. Frowning, the doctor abandoned the paper and then padded his way into Lyla's room. "Sherlock?" he barely whispered, knocking on Lyla's door with his knuckles. When no response came, the doctor pushed his way in. "Sherlock, are you in… Ah." A smile soon spread over John's lips. In front of him was Sherlock—sound asleep and with his mouth slack and hanging slightly open. One of his hands seemed to have fallen slightly from where it was previously resting in on his middle, and now lay on the detective's thigh.

Knowing his friend had been getting barely a few hours of sleep—if even that—the past few nights due to morning sickness, John couldn't help but feel sorry for his flat mate. Despite the fact that Sherlock could be a mean and stubborn arse, John was well aware how much extra work it takes to produce two lives—and the toll such work could take on the body. Even Sherlock's.

With a fond roll of his eyes, John briefly checked on Lyla and the silently slipped from the room. Too exhausted to even change into his pajamas, John clicked off all the lights in the flat and then crawled into bed.

 

 

 

 

John was awoken by the sound of a particularly loud clattering coming from somewhere in the flat. Body groggily thrumming to life, the doctor squinted towards the direction of the digital clock and then groaned upon catching sight of the time. 3:38. Rolling out of bed, John groggily made his way out of the bedroom and towards the noise. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," John sighed upon finding his flat mate rooting—rather loudly—through the fridge. "What are you doing?"

"Hungry."

"What?"

Thai leftovers in hand, Sherlock removed the better portion of his upper body from the fridge. "I'm hungry, John," he repeated, the annoyance clear in his voice. "I assume you are familiar with the sensation." Fingers working hurriedly, the detective pulled out a bowl, transferred some thai into the ceramic, and then transferred it to the microwave. Pulling his robe tightly around his middle, Sherlock planted his hands on the counter behind him and turned to John. "Apologies."

A nod.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and seemed to asses his friend. "I woke you."

John scoffed. "Yeah. You did. Why on earth are you getting food _now?_ "

A frown. "Because I'm hungry now." The microwave suddenly beeped. Turning to retrieve his food, Sherlock shot John a dithering look. "Really, John, I should think you would be proud of me. I'm actually eating, you'll note," the detective chuckled, rather sarcastically. Blowing on the leftovers, Sherlock raised a brow at his flat mate as he took a large bite.

Heaving a sigh, John nodded. "Well, I suppose I can't argue with you there. I also guess I'm glad that, for the moment, anyway, our children won't be starving in there." The doctor gestured towards Sherlock's middle, and then suddenly froze upon realizing the words he'd just spoken. _Our children._

Taking another bite of his food, but having taken note of his friend's change in behaviour, Sherlock stopped eating. "Problem?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

"Our children," John stated as explanation.

Brows tugging together in mild confusion, Sherlock then suddenly understood. "Ah," he sighed in understanding. "I see. _Our_ children." Setting down his now-empty bowl, Sherlock took a seat at the table and gazed at John's still rather stricken form. "Quite a realization, isn't it?"

Not quite able to ascertain whether John's revelation was positive or negative, Sherlock merely gazed at his flat mate and pressed his hands to his lips. "My apologies, John," the detective stated after a few more moments of pondering, "but I don't understand your…" A gesture. "Problem."

"They… they're mine, too. And yours. Together."

Brows once again tugging together in confusion, Sherlock frowned. "Yes," he drawled, "that _is_ what happens when two people's DNA is combined. And, as you know, both of our semen was—"

"Sherlock. I understand the science."

"Oh. Then I most certainly don't understand your situation."

"I just…" Now also taking a seat at the cluttered kitchen table, John finally turned his gaze to his flat mate. "I never really realized… They're mine, too. You know? I mean, biologically, they're mine. Ours. A mix of the both of us. It's just… well, frankly, it's amazing. It all just hit me," the doctor breathed.

Nodding a silent agreement, Sherlock removed his fingers from his lips and instead crossed them together atop the table. "John, I…" Pressing his hands together, the detective's lips parted just slightly, as if he was going to say something, and then closed again.

"What?" John asked, having noted the movement.

"Nothing."

"No. Obviously something. What?"

"I just… Don't get angry. I feel this might be something that could upset you," Sherlock started, testing the waters.

Scowling ever so slightly, John crossed his arms. "Go on, then."

The detective raised a brow. "Very well. I suppose I'm slightly concerned about Lyla."

"I don't follow."

An eyeroll. "Of course not, typical. Alright. I'm concerned because I've noticed that this time around, you seem to be far more worried, far more… concerned about the pregnancy. Which is perfectly logical as, this go around, the babies share your genetic makeup."

"What're you saying, Sherlock?"

"All I'm saying is that I don't want Lyla to be treated any differently than these two, simply because the other half of her DNA is not yours," Sherlock finally stated. The detective watch carefully as John's gaze suddenly fell to the table. "I told you you would be upset."

"I'm not upset. I'm a tad bit sad, but I'm not upset."

"Sad? I don't understand."

"I'm sad that you could possibly think I would love Lyla any less simply because she's going to have siblings that are biologically mine. Sherlock, she's half of you. That's more than enough of a reason to love her fully and completely as my own."

Rather at a loss for words, Sherlock's lips once again parted and then closed again. Deciding no words were necessary, the detective simply nodded and then, after setting his bowl in the sink, padded out of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, however, when he realized John was still seated at the table. "Coming?"

"What? Oh. Yes, I…"

Knowing then that John would eventually make his way out of the kitchen and into their room, Sherlock clicked off the hallway light and then padded into the bedroom.

After briefly brushing his teeth, the detective changed into a pair of pajamas and then crawled into bed. Several minutes later, he felt the bed dip on John's side. Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes when, several moments later, he heard the doctor snoring lightly next to him. _How can he possibly fall asleep so quickly? Insufferable. How nice it must be to have a mind so placid…_

Draping an arm over the dip in his waist, Sherlock twitched his fingertips ever-so-slightly, pressing the pads to the fabric covering his middle. Content with the shield of protection his hand seemed to provide for the babies beneath, the detective closed his eyes, and once again allowed the inviting tendrils of sleep to envelop him.

 

 

 

 

John awoke the next morning to find Sherlock in bed next to him, still sleeping. The doctor frowned, as Sherlock was always up before he was. Knowing how light of a sleeper the detective was, John tentatively rolled out of bed, secretly quite pleased with himself when he crept to the other side of bed and found Sherlock still sound asleep.

Cocking his head to one side, John stared quietly at his slumbering flat mate, suddenly spotting the vulnerability Sherlock so frequently tried to conceal. When he was sleeping, all worry suddenly vanished from the detective's features; the usually harsh planes of his face were made softer and less severe with sleep.

Taking note of his flat mate's arm swung over his middle, John smiled knowingly and then padded out of the room.

 

 

 

 

**9 weeks**

"Bloody hormones," Sherlock muttered with a shiver, as he once again found himself seated on the bathroom floor, curled over the toilet. "Double the hormones," he sighed, recalling John's words. "Double the sickness." The detective groaned as he heard John's approaching footsteps.

"Hey, Lyla's up and she's wanting to go out, so I was thinking… Oh."

"Yeah."

"Would you like me to take her out, so you can… be?" John asked with a sympathetic quirk of his lips.

"That would be much appreciated."

"Right."

"What will you tell her?"

"I'll tell her you're not feeling very well. She'll be fine. You stay here and rest."

"Right." Sherlock swallowed away the next bout of nausea and nodded. "Thank you."

In response, John smiled, knocked the doorframe once with his knuckles, and then stepped out of view.

After several more bouts of vomiting and then rest, Sherlock felt the waves of nausea subside, signally he was going to get a break.

Deciding to use the break to do research, Sherlock found his laptop and then collapsed into the couch cushions. The detective clicked open an internet tab and then typed into the search box: ways to stave off morning sickness, nine weeks pregnant, twins. After scrolling through several pages of results, Sherlock finally clicked on a site that looked as if it might actually provide the answers he was looking for. "Useless… Useless," the detective muttered as he scrolled through several different paragraphs entitled: **The Start of the Fetal Period** , **Fetal Heartbeat's Audible on Ultrasound** , and **Revive Your Energy**. The detective paused his scrolling, however, as while he had been briefly skimming all of the information on the page, he caught sight of something interesting.

Brows pulling together as he read, Sherlock absentmindedly mouthed the words he was quickly reading: "As challenged as your tender first trimester appetite is right now, it's still up to the challenge of filling your baby's nutritional needs (since he or she is just a little bigger than a pea right now, those needs are pretty tiny, too)." Lips parting just slightly as he absorbed this information, Sherlock suddenly shoved his laptop aside and hurried into the kitchen. After rooting through the freezer for several moments, the detective triumphantly found he was looking for.

Pulling out a bag of frozen peas, Sherlock hastily tore open the plastic and then pulled out two of the tiny vegetables. Nearly blushing at how utterly ridiculous he knew he was soon going to look, the detective made his way to the bathroom and then shut the door behind him, even though he knew no one was in the flat. Now standing in front of the floor-length mirror, Sherlock ignored the small bit of embarrassment burning on his cheeks and then, a pea in each hand, held up the green circles in front of his middle.

Lips forming a silent "oh," Sherlock gazed, rather in amazement, at the scene staring back and him in the mirror. "You two are so little," he murmured, staring at the small size of the peas in comparison to his much larger form. "So little." Smiling at the thought, Sherlock took a mental snapshot of the sight, and then stored the memory away in a very special hall of his mind palace, one he'd created on the day he'd first heard Lyla's heartbeat.

As the peas were quickly dethawing, Sherlock tossed them in the trash and then returned to his laptop. Now eager to learn what other interesting information the website might have, the detective eagerly scrolled down and then stopped on a purple-colored box entitled "More Tips." Ignoring most of them, Sherlock paused at the last one which read: _Boy, are you tired! Snooze on your left side. This allows for better blood flow to baby_. Frowning suddenly, as he almost always slept on his right side, Sherlock absentmindedly pressed a hand to his middle, as if to apologize for his sleeping patterns. "Duly noted."

Realizing the site had information on each week of pregnancy, Sherlock hastily saved the website, having found he actually enjoyed its tips and facts.

Remembering the site had noted that, even with morning sickness, it's important to eat, even in small meals, Sherlock padded into the kitchen in search of food. Upon finding nothing that particularly appealed to him, the detective pulled out his mobile.

**To: John Watson at 10:34 a.m.**

**On your way home, get healthy food. Like fruit and vegetables. Particularly strawberries and pineapple.**

**SH**

**To: John Watson at 10:34 a.m.**

**And perhaps some crackers.**

**SH**

 

Suspecting it would take a few minutes for John to respond, as he did not check his phone frequently, Sherlock pulled out the frozen peas and heated them up. Skewering a few of the tiny green vegetables, the detective took a bite and then grimaced.

 

**To: John Watson at 10:35 a.m.**

**Do NOT get peas.**

**SH**


	22. Sheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there everyone! So sorry for my sucky updating habits! I wanted to take a moment to thank all of the lovely people following this story and leaving such kind comments. I truly appreciate you all and I've loved writing this story for and with you all! (Not the haters, though. You're not as fun.) I hope you enjoy! ;P

**10 weeks**

"Of course not, look at the way she's posed!" Sherlock exclaimed, rolling his eyes in frustration. "It's like she's sleeping. Sleeping equates to remorse, therefore…"

"Therefore, she's uh… Well, of course she's," Lestrade blubbered as he glanced around the crime scene, desperately searching for anything to help him out.

Another eye roll. "Therefore, the killer did not mean to kill her; it was not the anticipated outcome of whatever happened here. It's highly likely that he posed her the way he did because he cannot cope with the realization that he murdered her; if she looks like she's sleeping, maybe he didn't actually kill her."

"He?"

"Yes, he." A scoff. "You must observe. Do you not see her hands? Or her hair? So painfully obvious."

"Ahem. Sherlock?"

"What, John?"

"Can I talk to you for a moment? Outside please."

Releasing a long huff of breath, Sherlock nodded and then brushed past his flat mate.

"Sorry," the doctor mouthed, shooting Lestrade an apologetic look. Following his friend's billowing coat, John had to jog slightly to keep up with Sherlock's long and angry strides.

"I do not need a scolding right now, John." Stopping his angry footfalls, Sherlock turned back to his flat mate, a brow raised.

The doctor raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not scolding you. Just giving you a chance to simmer down."

Stern and harsh gaze suddenly softening, Sherlock tucked his previously-tense hands into his pockets. "I know. I was unkind to George."

"Greg," John muttered under his breath.

"I just..." The detective heaved a sigh, ignoring his flat mate. "In addition to my frustration at the simplicity of this case and the imbecility of Scotland Yard, I'm becoming easily and unusually aggravated." Running a hand through his raven curls, Sherlock then ruffled them in frustration.

Hands on hips, John nodded and then explained, "That's perfectly normal for this time in the pregnancy. A little moody, a little short, okay? Just try to lay off Greg. You have to remember, he doesn't know yet."

A thought suddenly occurring, Sherlock, without a word to John, turned on his heel and then swiftly glided back to the crime scene. John soon followed suit.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began loudly as he entered the room, "I do believe I should inform you that some time ago, John and I desired to pursue the possibility of having another child. Long story short, our efforts were far more productive than initially planned, and as a result, I am currently pregnant with twins. I am currently nearing the eleventh week, and as such, my system is flooded with an increased level of hormones, one side effect of which is, as John puts it: 'moodiness.' I apologize for my being rude." The detective nodded and then pressed his lips into a smile that seemed to say he was proud of himself. The smile was soon replaced by a dithering look, however. "I will not apologize for the dismally unamusing state of this crime, however. Truly, even you should have noticed the hands."

Oblivious to both Greg and John's open mouths, Sherlock once again crouched down next to the dead woman and then continued to inspect her bloody form.

Quite clearly struggling to form proper words, Lestrade turned to John and merely raised his brows. "So-so you and-and… right. Well, uh… Good for you, then." Lips pressing into a thin line, Greg, quite embarrassed, averted his gaze.

"What? Oh. Oh! Oh, no! God no, that's not… No, that's not how it happened. We-we..." Rather tripping over his words, John suddenly blurted, "Insemination."

Eyes widening, both in understanding and what looked like relief, Lestrade nodded. "Oh. So, your… and his…"

Nearly blushing, John nodded. "Yes."

"Wow." The Detective Inspector glanced back towards Sherlock, who was either ignoring them or so immersed in his investigating that he was not hearing them. "Twins. That's a lot of babies."

John laughed, a mix between a scoff and a chuckle. "Sure is."

"Yeah… So that's why he's…"

"Yeah."

"Right. Makes sense."

A nod.

"Well…" Lestrade smiled awkwardly and then outstretched a hand. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." The doctor shook Greg's hand. "Ahem. Finding anything, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

Deeply invested in the case, then. "Finding anything?"

"Twenty-seven things. To be exact. None of them particularly useful or shocking."

"Right…" John raised his brows in expectation. "Care to share?" he prompted a few moments later, when it was clear his friend had missed the cue.

"No. It will take too long. But I've seen everything I need to see." Sherlock stood. "We need to go to the shops."

"For what?"

"Rope. And possibly a two by four." The detective glanced back at the victim. "Definitely a two by four." Turning on his heel, Sherlock made to exit the room.

Stopping him, Lestrade patted the detective on the back. "Hey. Congratulations, mate."

Sherlock's brows suddenly stitched together. "Why are you congratulating me?"

"Sherlock, he's trying to be nice."

"I don't understand."

"He's congratulating us on the pregnancy."

"Again: why?"

"Because it's nice, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air. "It's what people do."

Suddenly realizing this was an instance in which he was expected to thank Lestrade, the detective nodded. "Ah, I see. Right. Thank you, Gary, that's very nice."

"Oh bloody hell."

Sherlock frowned. "Wrong name?" Trying to conceal his smile, Lestrade nodded. "Sorry... Greg."

"There it is!"

"Thank you. It's very kind of you."

Lestrade smiled. "Don't mention it. Also, if you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know."

"Thank you."

"And I do mean anything. If you need a night alone to yourself, or just some sleep, I'm more than happy to watch Lyla."

There was a sudden pause where it was quite clear Sherlock was debating whether to say what he was thinking. Despite a small and barely discernible head shake from John, the detective took a breath and then, in proper Sherlock fashion continued, "Lestrade, I do not mean to offend, but I rather believe that, if we require a babysitting for Lyla, we will most likely be contacting someone more qualifi—"

"Qualified than our current babysitter, which would mean you are next in line! Thank you so much for offering, come on, Sherlock, let's go to the store," John muttered hurriedly, having realized his friend was about to mortally offend the Detective Inspector.

Rather oblivious, Greg smiled and then waved goodbye.

 

 

 

 

"Thank you, John," Sherlock sighed, "you've quite clearly made your point, I understand."

"All I'm saying, Sherlock, is that sometimes you need to be a bit more mindful of other people's feelings. Not everyone is a robot like you," John huffed as he stormed down yet another aisle of the appliance store in search of rope.

Silvery blue gaze steady, Sherlock ignored the mild stinging sensation that was suddenly burning beneath his eyelids. "I did not mean to offend. You know I do not pick up on things like that. Especially not now my brain has been bombarded by so many ghastly hormones. I'd quite like to see you function in my state."

"Yeah, Sherlock," John sighed with an apologetic eye roll. "I know you don't pick up on those things. Sorry, mate."

Not bothering with a response, Sherlock merely pursed his lips together.

"So, then. What do we need? Rope? What else?"

Frowning, Sherlock tucked his hands into his coat pockets and raised a dithering brow at his friend.

Now also frowning, but out of confusion, John exclaimed in exasperation, "What?! Why are you giving me that look?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock lowered his brow and explained, "Well, someone was apparently so caught up in their ranting and frustrations that they did not notice that in the thirty minutes they've been fuming through the store, I'd already gathered everything we needed." The detective gestured to the cart. John's gaze followed.

"Oh." With a frown, the doctor stared at several lengths of rope, some duct tape, zip ties, and a bottle of water. "What's the water for?"

"I'm thirsty."

"Oh, right." Clearing his throat, and rather embarrassed that he'd been so caught up in his scolding he'd failed to notice the filling cart, John turned around the end of an aisle and headed for the checkout. "No two-by-four?"

"I have one at home."

"What? Where?"

"Under the bed."

John rolled his eyes, deciding he did not even care to know why Sherlock kept a two-by-four stashed under their bed.

 

 

 

 

After a quick stop for some food, and by the time Sherlock had promptly downed his bottle of water, the sun had long ago fallen.

"Lyla probably won't be up," John whispered as he silently opened the door to 221B.

"No, she will be," Sherlock murmured in response. "She always stays up for us when we're out late."

Smiling in agreement, John allowed his flat mate up the stairs first, and then promptly followed behind as they reached Lyla's room. Just as Sherlock had stated, Lyla was standing in her crib, arms draped lazily through the bars, as if to say: about time you two got back! I've been waiting here for hours.

With a fond smile, John crouched slightly so as to be at eye level with the little girl. "Hello there, little one," he whispered.

"He'o Papa." With a sleepy smile and tender hands, Lyla reached forward and briefly cradled the doctor's face with her little fingers. "Dood-night."

"Goodnight." Pressing a kiss to each little palm, John returned Lyla's hands to her side and then allowed Sherlock to take his place.

"He'o Daddy. I missed you."

A smile. "As always, I missed you too, Lyla." Standing, Sherlock curved over the top of the crib and pressed a tender kiss atop his daughter's dark curls. "Sleep well, love. Goodnight. I love you."

"Dood-night Daddy. Love you."

With a content nod of her head and a yawn, Lyla settled into the folds of her crib and, as John and Sherlock crept from the room, promptly fell asleep.

 

 

 

"Not going to work on the case tonight?" John asked as he watched Sherlock exit their bathroom, clothed in pajamas and his favorite robe. "I thought you would have been itching to do... whatever on earth it is you do with a two-by-four, and some rope and duct tape."

"No, not tonight," Sherlock sighed as he crossed over to the bed. "What I plan to do requires more energy than I currently have in reserve. I need to refresh." The detective took a seat at the edge of the bed. "It also certainly doesn't help that these weeks of pregnancy are the most exhaustive."

With a sympathetic smile, John settled into the bed, lying on his back. "Sorry, mate."

Sherlock hummed a reply. "Yes. It is most unfortunate that..." The detective suddenly trailed off, the words escaping his lips as he felt a very particular flutter in his middle.

Having noticed the unfinished sentence, John sat up and frowned at his flat mate. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"Yes, I..." Lithe fingers barely resting atop his middle, Sherlock sat frozen in place, as if not jinx the familiar sensation.

"Sherlock, is everything okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" the detective exclaimed with a chuckle. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

The doctor quirked a confused brow.

As he suddenly realized the sensation was quickly dissipating, Sherlock took a moment's pause and then lifted his hands. "I thought, for a moment, that I'd felt them moving," the detective explained with a fond little smile. "I know I'm technically not supposed to be able to feel them moving just yet, but... I don't know. Perhaps it was something else."

Though he chose not to say so, John knew that in reality Sherlock suspected nothing of the sort. Regardless, the doctor replied, "Right. Probably. I mean it is very early yet." Settling back into his pillows, John watched Sherlock with a coy smile.

"Indeed it is." That fond smile still lingering on his lips, Sherlock also rested his head against his own sets of pillows and then closed his eyes.

 

 

 

**11 weeks**

John awoke to an empty and cold bed. The doctor frowned, as waking to an empty bed was quite normal, but waking to a cold one was not.

Rolling out of the bed, John attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but to no avail. Quickly giving up, the doctor dropped his arms and squinted at the bed, soon discovering the source of the chill; the covers lay crumpled on Sherlock's side of the bed and the sheets were missing entirely.

Knowing quite well where the sheet was, John pulled on a sweatshirt and then padded into the sitting room, hands already on his hips. Like he'd suspected, the doctor found the bed sheet wrapped loosely around his flat mate's lanky form.

The detective in question was sat on the sitting room floor, Lyla seated in front of his crossed legs and a case file in his hand.

Choosing to ignore—for the moment—why Sherlock had stolen their bed sheet, John took a seat in his chair and then posed a question. "New case?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed with a nod of his head.

"Right, right. Did Greg drop it off?"

"Who? Oh. Yes. This morning."

"Right... Did he say anything?" John gestured at his friend's attire, though it clearly went unnoticed.

"Nothing besides the usual unbearable drabble. Though he did seem quite perplexed."

"I'm sure," John chuckled with a roll of his eyes. "Have you any idea why he might have been so perplexed?"

"Probably dwelling on something simple and insignificant. It is Lestrade."

"Yeah, I don't think that was it. Any other ideas from that brilliant brain of yours?"

Silence.

"Sherlock."

"..."

"Sherlock!"

"Hmm?"

"You're wearing a bloody sheet!"

"What?" Sherlock tore his eyes away from the case just long enough to glance down at his attire. "Oh." His keen eyes returned to the file. "I'd quite forgotten I had this on. I could probably take it off, but it is quite airy and rather comfortable." Absentmindedly stroking a hand through Lyla's silky curls, the detective worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

"Sherlock, you're wearing a sheet!"

"Yes. Excellent observation skills, John, as per the usual," Sherlock muttered, too engrossed in the case file to even roll his eyes. "When you finish stating the obvious, do please let me know and I'll be sure to once again pay attention."

Holding his tongue and the rather vile words that were poised on it, John turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Sherlock?" he asked calmly.

"Hmm?"

"Do you know what I'm about to ask you?"

"Well, while I am physically incapable of reading your mind—I would rather hope you know that by now—I can deduce you're about to ask me why I've stolen the bed sheet."

John merely raised his brows in response.

"Sensitive," Sherlock supplied as answer.

John frowned, and then glanced around the room, trying to understand. "The case?"

"Me."

After a few more moments of pondering, John finally understood. "Your skin?" he asked, making the connection.

A nod. "Quite. While it was not unbearable, it was certainly distracting, and I surmised this sheet would be a wonderful solution. Per the usual, I was correct."

"Always," John agreed with a smirking smile. "I don't recall this being as much of an issue last go around...?"

"That's because it wasn't. Well... not entirely, anyway. The sensation is certainly more noticeable this time around. Very prominent in my nipples for some reason." The detective's lips quirked down into a frown. "I've checked, though, and the sensation should dissipate within the week. Quite common. Expected, even, my goodness, this case might just be the best one we've been handed in a long while."

John suppressed a smile and a chuckle. "So are you just going to walk around wearing only our sheet for the next four to seven days?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not wearing the sheet out of necessity, I just didn't want to waste my time putting on clothes this morning due to the sensitivity, and this was an excellent short-term solution."

John withheld an eye roll. "Right. Because getting dressed every morning is so difficult."

"No, not every morning. Only on occasion." Clearly satisfied with what he'd just finished reading, Sherlock nodded his head and then closed the case file, tossing it away. "Novel," he murmured, gazing down at Lyla, who was staring contently out the window.

Smiling at the scene, John asked quietly, "Which one?" He nodded towards the file and then raised his eyebrows at Lyla.

"Yes."


	23. Clumsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY, I FINALLY GOT BACK INTO THE SWING OF WRITING. Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter and for sticking with me for this long! =) It's so amazing how many people have been following this story since the beginning, and it means the world to me that so many of you are still reading. I hope you enjoy!

**13 weeks**

John returned home from a particularly dull day at work to find Sherlock, seated cross-legged in the middle of the sitting room, eyes closed, taking to himself.

"But that can't be right, can it? No? No, you're absolutely right. Thank you, John."

"For what?" the doctor chimed with a playful smile.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he glanced confusedly to his left. "You know what," he stated, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Nope. I just got in."

"But I was just talking to you."

Lips pressing into a smile, John crossed his arms and shook his head. "Yeah, you do that. But I definitely wasn't here. Been at work for the past several hours, remember?"

"Well," the detective sighed as he pushed himself into a standing position, "that explains why you were actually helpful."

In response, John playfully rolled his eyes. "Lyla?"

"Nap."

"I'll go get her up, then."

Sherlock nodded his thanks and then crossed opposite of John into the kitchen. Deciding he could really use a cup of tea, the detective started the water boiling and then selected his favorite mug from the cabinet. He then leaned himself against the counter behind him, waiting for the sound of John's familiar footfalls down the stairs. After a few moments, he could hear the doctor's distinctive tread walking towards the kitchen. As if on cue, John emerged in the kitchen doorway a few moments later, Lyla in his arms. The little girl was practically still sleeping. Clothed in just a pair of pajama bottoms, her head rested heavily against John's shoulder.

"Ah, not quite ready to get up then, are we?" Sherlock asked, fondness laced in his deep voice.

John merely smiled in response before turning his attention back to the little girl in his arms. "Oi," he said, giving her a cheek a gentle poke. "Come on, now. You had a good sleep, but now it's time for you to get up."

Lips pulling down into a frown, Lyla raised a small hand and pressed it hard against John's mouth, as if to say, Thank you, but you can stop talking now and leave me be.

Rather surprised, John released a breathless laugh and then raised an incredulous brow at Sherlock, who had pressed a hand to the back of his mouth in an attempt to conceal his smile. "What the bloody hell are you on about?" John asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Nothing, nothing at all," Sherlock replied, averting his gaze as his smile widened.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just... I've been wanting to do that for ages." Unable to stifle his laughter any longer, Sherlock removed his hand from his lips, nearly doubling over with force of his chuckles. Ding! "Ah! Kettle's just boiled, do you want some tea?" he continued with a chuckle, ignoring the glare John was shooting his way.

"No. Thank you." The doctor replied through gritted teeth.

Having sensed a bizarre shift in the room, Lyla was now properly awake. "What wong, Daddy?" she asks, glancing confusedly between Sherlock and John.

As if he was an actor slipping into character, Sherlock removed the smile from his lips and instead raised a warning brow at his daughter. "Lyla, what you just did was very rude. Papa was waking you up, just as he should have done, and that was not a very nice way to respond. You know how nap time works. Do you understand?" The detective gazed seriously at his daughter, waiting for a response. There came a timid nod. "Good. Now, I think Papa would very much appreciate it if you apologized." His brow still raised, Sherlock nodded to John, who was still glaring at him, though it was quickly fading.

As her frown soon transformed from one of annoyance to one of apology, Lyla turned her face to John and then uttered a very small, "I sowee, John. I not mean it."

"Thank you for apologizing, Lyla. I appreciate that." The doctor pressed a quick kiss to the little girl's check and then set her on the floor. As if upset by the situation as a whole, Lyla turned her back to her two parents and then plopped herself down, sitting right in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. The little girl crossed her arms for added effect.

Upon turning his gaze back to Sherlock, John found the smug—almost proud?—smile had returned. "Oh, piss off!" he muttered, taking a seat at the table.

A deep chuckle rumbled through Sherlock's chest. Having finished making his cuppa, the detective wrapped his slender fingers around the hot cup of tea and then made his way towards where Lyla was sitting in the doorway. "Really, John," he remarked with a chuckle and a raise of his brow, "you really should know by now that I will never—"

In a rather bizarre string of events, just as he was about to pass the kitchen table and make his way into the sitting room, Sherlock's thigh gently bumped into the corner of the table, causing his fingers to release their weak grasp on the boiling cup of tea wrapped in his fingers. The cup titled out of his grasp and began to tumble towards the kitchen tile. Knowing the glass was soon to shatter against the ground, Sherlock, as if in slow motion, made a lunge towards Lyla, not wanting any shards to hit her bare back. Just as his hands wrapped around her small middle, the glass cup, with it's burning contents, crashed to the floor just a few centimeters from Sherlock's feet.

"Damn it!" the detective cried with a wince as, in his scramble to pull his daughter up and away from the ground, he managed to step directly upon a collection of glass shards. Hopping on his uninjured foot, the detective managed to make his way into the sitting room, before falling—rather gracefully—to the floor.

"Sherlock! Are you okay?" Instantly switching into 'doctor mode,' John carefully stepped over the shattered cup and its remains and then knelt next to Sherlock and Lyla, who was huddled close to the detective's chest, unsure about what had just happened.

Pain radiating from his foot, Sherlock threw his head back, flattening his upper half against the floor. "Damn." Realizing Lyla had begun to cry, obviously confused about what had happened and shaken by the loud crash of the glass, the detective hugged her close, ignoring the pain, before passing her into John's hands. "I'm fine, check her."

Eyes raking over Lyla in tandem, John checked the little girl's bare upper half for any lacerations, cuts, or scratches while Sherlock ran a hand over her pajama bottoms and socks, making sure to remove any stray pieces of glass that may have imbedded themselves in the fabric. "She's fine. No cuts and no glass," John concluded with a sigh. The doctor glanced down at his flat mate's foot. "You, on the other hand..." His thoughts trailed off as he passed Lyla back into Sherlock's arms.

"Daddy?" the little girl asked with a sniffle, concern lacing her small voice.

"It's alright, love. I just broke a glass," Sherlock reassured, attempting his warmest smile. The detective watched as John crouched near his foot and then groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position, using John's chair to support his back. "I'm sorry if I frightened you when I grabbed you, love. I just didn't want you to get hurt." Taking note of the tears that were quickly drying upon his daughter's cheeks, Sherlock took a thumb and brushed them away with a warm smile.

"Daddy hut?"

"I just hurt my foot a little bit. But it's nothing for you to worry about." The detective winced as John tenderly touched his foot in an attempt to asses the damage. Keeping Lyla settled in his lap, Sherlock watched as John frowned up at him. "Yeah, you've got quite a few pieces embedded here, Sherlock. I'm going to have to pull them out. You also burned a few patches of skin down here quite badly."

Rolling his eyes at this painful and rather annoying blip on an otherwise-fine day, Sherlock huffed, "Fine. But clean up the glass first; we don't need you tracking more of it all over the flat."

With a nod of agreement, John hastily found the broom and vacuum and got to work.

"Any'ting I can help?" Lyla asked, bottom lip protruding.

"Those are very good manners, Lyla," Sherlock praised with a smile, "but I think John can handle this one on his own. It was very thoughtful of you to offer, though."

"Otay, Daddy. I has uh stay here?" She gestured to where she was sitting atop Sherlock's lap.

"Yes, Lyla. Only for a little while longer, though."

"Otay, Daddy."

 

 

 

 

After about ten minutes of sweeping and vacuuming, John was content that he'd gotten all the shards of glass. Once he'd found a pair of tweezers, the doctor again crouched near his flat mate's foot, which had started to bleed. "It's going to sting," the doctor warned with an apologetic twist of his lips.

"That's fine." Sherlock glanced down at Lyla, pleased to find she was currently distracted, tracing her small fingers over the fibres of his t-shirt.

With the precision of only an army doctor, John carefully held his friend's foot in place and then began to remove the shards of glass from his skin bit by bit. The doctor was careful to be as slow and gentle as possible.

Sherlock observed his friend with keen eyes, taking note of the gentility and intensity in John's blue eyes.

"Okay?" John asked, sure that pulling embedded pieces of glass from Sherlock's skin had to hurt quite a bit.

"Fine," the detective muttered with a wince. As if to calm himself, Sherlock ran several slender fingers through Lyla's hair, much to the little girl's delight.

"You do a good job," she assured, giving her father a quick pat upon his cheeks.

"You think so?" Sherlock murmured with a fond smile.

"'Es. Very good job."

"Well, thank you, love. Your Papa's doing a very good job, as well."

"'Es!" Lyla agreed proudly.

'Yes..."

 

 

 

 

After John had successfully removed all of the large shards of glass from his flat mate's skin, the doctor disposed of the pieces and then wet a towel. "This is also going to sting quite a bit. Sorry in advance." He quickly moved the cloth over Sherlock's bleeding skin, removing any smaller shards and wiping away some of the blood that had begun to dry.

Groaning, both in pain and annoyance, Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. "I've shoved an entire human being out of my body, and yet a few cuts have sent me into ruin." The detective returned his head to the floor and then draped his free arm over his eyes, much to Lyla's confusion.

"Such dramatics," John scolded with a chuckle. Tossing the bloodied and glass-filled towel into the trash, John then found some gauze and wrapped a few strips of it around his flat mate's foot. "There. Good as new."

"And you got all the glass cleaned off the floor?"

"Yep, all clean."

"Good. You can go ahead now, Lyla." With a small groan, the detective lifted the little girl off his lap and then set her down on the ground. She toddled away towards the couch. Absentmindedly setting a hand atop his middle, Sherlock pushed himself into a standing position, mindful of his foot.

Taking note of his friend's burned skin, which was now turning a lovely shade of red, John suggested, "I'll get you a cool cloth to help with the burns."

Sherlock hummed his thanks and then gingerly walked over to his seat, careful of his bandaged foot. The detective settled into the familiar folds of his chair and then closed his eyes. "Sorry if my fall was a bit rough on you two," he murmured quietly to his middle, checking to make sure John was not watching him. "I hope I didn't shake you up too much." The detective settled a ginger hand over the expanse of his middle, as if he was worried he would injury the babies if he pressed too hard. A paternal flutter of excitement travelled down the length of Sherlock's spine when he felt the slight profusion of his belly; the first physical signs that there were two lives growing beneath his skin. "Finally."

"Finally what?"

"Nothing," Sherlock responded quickly, removing his hand from his middle to grab the cool cloth John had just passed him. Curling over himself, the detective gently placed the towel over the top of his foot, which had been most badly burned by the tea. "Thank you."

"Sure... You going to be okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured with a frown. "I just don't understand what happened. I didn't even bump the table that hard. And even if I had, that shouldn't have affected my grip."

John shrugged. "Things happen. I wouldn't worry about."

 

 

 

By the end of the week, however, Sherlock had not only broken two more glasses, but had also stubbed his toe, bruised his arm, and broken a glass container at the store when it slipped from his fingers.

"Bloody hell!" the detective shouted as the pen he was writing with suddenly slipped from his hand. "JOHN!"

The doctor in question appeared a few moments later, slightly out of breath from his quick retreat down the stairs. "What, what's happened, is something wrong?"

"My bloody inability to keep hold of anything, that's what's wrong!" Sherlock huffed in response, angrily shoving his stool under the kitchen table. "Over the course of the past few days, I've managed to run into just about every door, chair, and wall in sight, I've dropped just about every breakable thing that's capable of being dropped, and now I can't even keep hold of my damn pen!" With a frustrated ruffle of his curls, Sherlock stomped away into the sitting room, and then threw himself into the couch. Not unlike a child throwing a tantrum, the detective wrapped his robe around his body and then pulled a pillow over his head. "Can't even hold a bloody pen," he mumbled into the pillow.

Hands crossed over his chest, John shook his head at his child-like flat mate. "It's not the end of the world, Sherlock! It's just another side effect; the extra hormones have just loosed your ligaments and joints a bit. That's all. It'll go away in a few days, I'm sure."

"Insufferable!" came Sherlock's muffled reply.

"Maybe. But for now, you'll just have to cope and adjust."

Sherlock once again groaned into the pillow.

John rolled his eyes. "I didn't realize I was living with two children." The doctor treaded softly from the room. "I'll make us some tea." Sherlock merely continued to groan into the pillow.

 

 

 

Later that night (after dropping his toothbrush in the sink), Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, clothed only in a pair of pajama bottoms. As John had been called in to A&E to aide in the treating of victims of a particularly deadly car crash, the detective had the bed all to himself, something that had not happened in quite a few months. Settling himself right in the middle, Sherlock glanced down at his bare midriff. He frowned upon noticing that, once on his back, his small bump seemed to disappear completely. "No need to worry," he murmured, both to himself and the babies. Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, Sherlock splayed his fingers over the expanse of the pale skin covering his middle. "No need at all... I know you're there."

Finding he was not particularly fond of laying on his back anymore, the detective rolled over. He remembered reading, several weeks back, that sleeping on the left side is most beneficial for the baby. (Or in this case, babies.)

After rolling onto his left side, Sherlock found that he'd more or less settled into the dip on John's side of the bed. The detective furrowed his browns upon realizing the pillows his head was currently resting upon smelled very distinctly of the doctor, something he'd never noticed before. Finding the scent oddly familiar and reassuring, Sherlock draped an arm lazily over his middle and closed his eyes.

 

 

 

By the time John returned home, he was positively exhausted. While it was very late, the doctor had also found over the years that witnessing tremendous loss and damage of life was equally as draining. Not even bothering to brush his teeth or change into night clothes, John dragged himself into the bedroom, and then made his way into his side of the bed. It was not until he began lifting the covers, however, that he realized there was someone under them.

"Mm." Groaning awake, Sherlock gazed groggily up at John, who gazed back, just as groggy. The detective began to scooch himself to the other side of the bed.

"No, it's okay," the doctor assured, "I'll take the other side." By the time he'd settled into Sherlock's side of the bed, John was practically asleep.

Barely awake, himself, Sherlock reached a haphazard hand behind him, patted his flat mate's arm, and then mumbled, "good," before promptly falling back to sleep.


	24. New Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy/Merry Belated Christmas (for those of you that celebrate Christmas)! Please enjoy this longer chapter and I hope you all have a very jolly holiday season and a very happy new year (especially with the release of Sherlock Series Four)! =D

**16 weeks**

"Sherlock. You didn't talk for an entire day after the last appointment. You've forced me to reschedule this one three times! What is wrong with you?" John asked, hands on his hips, glaring at his flat mate (who was currently laying in bed, face-down, a pillow over his head).

"I don't want to go," came Sherlock's muffled reply.

"Why the bloody hell not? You love these appointments!"

"I do _not_ love—"

"Don't even try, Sherlock. I know you love these appointments because you get to see the babies on the ultrasound and hear their heartbeats." Quite pleased when Sherlock did not volley back with a reply, John continued. "Now, before we miss this appointment for a fourth time, will you please tell me what you're on about?"

Heaving a tremendously dramatic sigh, Sherlock rolled over until his back was facing John, and then pressed the pillow even further against his head.

"Unbelievable," John muttered, massaging his temples. "Sherlock, this is ridiculous. Now get out of bed, put on some clothes, and meet me downstairs. We are not missing this appointment again."

Rolling his eyes as he heard John begin to retreat from the room, Sherlock pressed his pillow closer to his face and then mumbled, "It's because I don't like him."

The doctor stopped. He turned back to his flat mate with a frown. "What do you mean you don't like him?"

"He looks at me like I'm a horrible disease." Tossing away the pillow, Sherlock again rolled back towards John, brows furrowed together. "A horrible disease that should be eradicated... I don't like the way his eyes rake over me, the way his smile is so sickeningly fake." Feeling a chill run up his spine, Sherlock absentmindedly rested a hand against the curve of his middle. "He makes me feel... self-conscious. Plus, it's blatantly clear he takes very little interest in the babies."

Frowning at his friend's curled-up form, John crossed his arms. "But... he didn't do any of that at the last appointment."

Sherlock squinted accusingly at his friend. "Didn't he?" The detective pushed himself into a sitting position. "As always, you see but you do not observe." Abandoning his warm spot on the bed, Sherlock ran to the closet and quickly pulled on his best suit. (As he knew he would soon have to abandon his beloved suits, the detective had been wearing them as frequently as he could.) "Let's go." He brushed past John as he exited the room.

"Right."

Sherlock glanced around the Women's Health Clinic waiting room. Despite the fact that he and John were the only men in the room, the surrounding women paid them little attention. While Sherlock felt perfectly at ease in the clinic, it was clear to the detective that John was uncomfortable. Glancing at his shorter friend out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock noted his flushed cheeks and averted gaze. "Why are you embarrassed?" he asked softly, glancing at a few of the nearby women.

"What? I'm not embarrassed," the doctor answered hurriedly, grabbing one of the nearby magazines.

"Please, you're reeking of it." Pursing his lips, Sherlock crossed his legs and then laced his fingers against them. "I don't understand you. You're a doctor for God's sake."

"A general physical, Sherlock. Not an OBGYN. Not my area. "

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "It's not as if you don't know how women's bodies work; you did go to medical school. And even if you hadn't, you've had sexual—"

John interrupted his flat mate by elbowing him in the arm. "Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

" _You're_ the one who insisted we do this pregnancy 'by-the-book' and with an 'actual doctor.' I was perfectly content to continue our nightly appointments, with you as my doctor," Sherlock countered with an eye roll. "Besides, I don't understand what you're so embarrassed about. Most of the women in here are assuming we're a couple here for a surrogate appointment, anyway."

Heaving a sigh of his own, John returned the magazine to its place on the side table. "I'm not embarrassed, I'm just... just anxious, I suppose. I'm still coming to terms with the fact that they're mine. I just feel very... protective of them. It's a weird sensation for me." The doctor fidgeted with the hem of his jacket. "Also, it's weird handing over control of these appointments."

"Again, _I'm_ not the one—"

"Yes, Sherlock, thank you."

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?" A small nurse walked out of one of the nearby doors, a clipboard in hand.

"Ah, finally." With excited fervor, Sherlock shoved himself out of his chair and then walked past the nurse, smiling as he went.

"Yes, finally." John followed, hands swinging at his sides as he went.

After the procedural height check and weigh-in, the nurse led Sherlock and John through a series of hallways until they reached an empty room. "Dr. Carter will be in to see you in a few minutes," the nurse stated kindly as she held the door open for Sherlock and John. Lips pressed firmly against one another, Sherlock stepped into the doctor's office while John thanked the nurse with a nod and a smile.

"Watch his mannerisms," Sherlock mumbled as he pulled of his long coat and set it atop an empty chair. "And his eyes," he added with a frown. "Especially his eyes."

"Not that I don't believe you, mate, but—"

"But what?" Sherlock interrupted, shooting his flat mate an accusing stare.

"Well... sometimes—just sometimes, of course—you do tend to exaggerate things."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock sat himself atop the sterile-looking table positioned in the middle of the room. "Firstly, I don't do that. Secondly, even if I _did_ , I'm not exaggerating on this one. Just watch; you'll see." With a frown, the detective glanced around the small room, taking in its pastel colors and cheerful images.

"You do realize that Mycroft flew this guy in, especially for you?"

" _So_?" Sherlock asked accusingly.

"Sooo, perhaps this is just you not wanting your brother's help? I mean, of all the doctors in this hospital, Dr. Carter would be the one who's most qualified to attend to you."

"Or perhaps my brother needs to learn when I do and do not need his help. Can we please stop talking about this? You'll see soon enough."

"Right." Crossing his legs as he took a seat in one of the room's two chairs, John gazed at his friend's tense form. Despite his skepticism, the doctor could clearly see that Sherlock was anxious; his fingers were twitching rapidly against his thighs; his back was ramrod straight; his eyes were staring directly forward. "Soo," the doctor drawled, hoping to fill the silence in the room, "do you want to—"

"John, please don't feel the need to make conversation while we wait; it will not change my attitude or level of uneasiness," Sherlock interrupted, speaking in his typical rapid-fire fashion. Ignoring the pitying look he knew John was shooting him, the detective closed his eyes. Though he would never admit it to John, Sherlock was feeling very uneasy about this appointment. He could feel his heart beating mercilessly in his chest; he knew his pregnancy was not normal, but was rather very singular and unusual. While he was incredibly overjoyed that he and John were going to welcoming two more beautiful children into their lives, he still couldn't deny that people like Dr. Carter made him feel embarrassed about his condition. "Ridiculous," he muttered aloud, as if to scold himself for his embarrassment.

"What is?"

"Me."

"I don't..."

"Don't worry, John, you don't need to understand."

"Of course not."

Sensing that Dr. Carter was approaching the room, Sherlock opened his eyes. A slight frowned creased itself upon his lips as he began to unbutton his shirt (which just barely fit anymore). "Remember," he told John as he undid the final button, "don't listen to his words, watch his body language; observe." A brow slightly raised, Sherlock stared into John's rich blue eyes. The doctor responded with a nod and a smile.

The door clicked open.

While Sherlock heard Dr. Carter's voice before he saw the actual man, just the falsely kind tone if his words was enough to ice the blood running through his veins.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Carter drawled as he stepped into the room, not looking up from his computer chart. With a head of perfectly-groomed chestnut hair, a chiseled jawline, and a strong physique, the doctor looked as if he belonged in a TV show. "How are we doing today?"

"No better or worse than the last time I saw you," Sherlock responded flatly.

Dr. Carter tore his eyes away from the computer just long enough to rake his eyes over Sherlock's seated form. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock could feel a heat rise upon his cheeks.

Dr. Carter returned his gaze to the computer with a dazzlingly beautiful smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Right, good, good... Are we on any medications today?"

"No."

"Not at all?" Carter probed, a passive-aggressive suggestion laced in his voice.

"I said no," Sherlock retorted quickly. "Test me if you're so skeptical."

Another dazzling smile. "No, that's... quite all right. Let's get your blood pressure."

As Dr. Carter crossed to the side of the cot, Sherlock attempted to breath slowly and deeply through his nose; he already knew his blood pressure was going to be high. "Before you ask: yes, my urine has been normal," Sherlock stated, extending his arm towards Carter.

"Ah... Yes, thank you."

"Oh, I can assure you—the pleasure is all mine."

John watched with a frown as Carter wrapped the BP cuff around Sherlock's bicep and began pumping the pressure. As the dial floated down and the pressure released, John couldn't help but notice the smug smile that crawled across Carter's lips as he noted Sherlock's BP.

"Blood pressure's a tad bit high today, Mr. Holmes. Under a lot of stress?"

"Again: no more than usual."

"Ah. Good, you had me worried."

Sherlock watched with observant eyes as Dr. Carter pulled the cuff from his arm; the way the doctor made an effort not to touch his skin; the way his knuckles turned white as he squeezed the cuff closed. Hoping that John had caught on, Sherlock turned his gaze to his flat mate, and was quite pleased when he found the doctor's eyes also on Carter's movements.

John watched, listened, and observed as Carter asked Sherlock the rest of the questions on his computer.

"Diet?"

"Increased... for me. Otherwise, normal."

"Really? Your weight seems to be up quite a bit from last time."

"I am nearly five months pregnant with twins, doctor. I would be concerned if my weight was not 'up quite a bit' from the last appointment."

Lips twitching into a joyless smile, Dr. Carter scribbled something on a notepad behind him before continuing his questions without a beat. "Fetal activity?"

"None, yet," Sherlock answered with a slight frown.

"Any sickness?"

"No, not recently."

"How recent?"

"Four weeks, three days, seven hours, and approximately forty-two minutes."

John chuckled softly to himself.

"Ah. That's... very specific. Thank you." With a grimace of a smile, Carter made a note on his computer. "Recent sexual activity?"

"None."

For the first time throughout the entire appointment, Carter seemed genuinely surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me perfectly," Sherlock answered with an eye roll.

Carter's eyes drifted between the two flat mates, a look of skepticism etched into his handsome features.

"No sexual activity," Sherlock reiterated slowly.

A faint scoff. "Okay. That's all the questions I have for now, then."

As John ignored the anger that was boiling to the surface of his cheeks, turning them a deep shade of pink, he suddenly understood what Sherlock had been telling him. When simply listening to Dr. Carter, he seemed to be a kind and concerned doctor; his tone was satisfyingly worried and interested. When observing his behaviours, however—his movements, glances, facial expressions—it became blatantly clear that Carter was disgusted by Sherlock. John suddenly felt incredibly guilty and oblivious for not having seen the signs their first time around. He was pulled out of his musings, however, by Carter's voice. The doctor found Sherlock was staring at him, a small smirk on his lips. His expression clearly said, _told you so_.

Lips quirking to the side in a small smile, Sherlock turned his attention back to Carter. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I said you can remove your shirt and lean back on the table. Time for the ultrasound."

Ignoring the former instruction, Sherlock simply allowed his un-buttoned shirt to fall to his sides before slowly lowering himself onto the crinkly sheet of paper.

"I assume you'll be wanting to know the sexes?" Dr. Carter asked as he pulled out the ultrasound gel and wand.

"No, not today."

"Really? Most parents—"

"While that's lovely for most parents, in case you hadn't noticed, we are not most parents. We do not wish to know the babies' genders today."

"Right, then. We'll just have to hope I don't accidentally let it slip, right?"

Squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance, Sherlock held the words on his tongue, suspecting they would upset John, and then set his head against the small and papery pillow beneath this head. The detective took note of the way Carter slowly squeezed the ultrasound gel onto the palm of his head; the way his fingers hesitated just slightly before pressing the cold liquid onto his skin. Sherlock ignored the way his skin crawled as Carter spread the liquid across his abdomen, ignored the way the hairs on his arm were standing on end. The detective was quite surprised, however, upon hearing John's voice.

"Dr. Carter, can you please put down those tools and excuse yourself from the room?" the doctor asked cooly. (Though Sherlock, having known John for so many years, could tell the doctor was burning with anger.)

Mouth going slightly slack, Dr. Carter glanced back and forth between John and Sherlock. "I'm sorry?" he asked, raising an incredulous brow.

"You head me perfectly, I'm not saying it again."

"I don't understand."

"Than let me break it down for you. Your behaviour today has been incredibly unprofessional. As a doctor myself, I know that we both know that the comfort of the patient always comes first. Regardless of whether or not you find our situation unconventional, disgusting, or unnatural, this man is your patient and he deserves the same level of respect as each and every one of your female patients. Your suggestive and passive-aggressive comments have no place in this appointment. It is also abundantly clear that your first area of concern is not Sherlock and our babies—as it should be—but is rather completing this appointment as quickly and carelessly as you can. I don't care how much Mycroft Holmes agreed to pay you; as of today, we are terminating your position as our doctor. Thank you, have a lovely day, and do please excuse yourself from the room."

Mouth hanging slightly slack, Dr. Carter glanced between the two men. "Right. If you'll excuse me, then." With a curt nod to Sherlock and John, respectively, he quickly grabbed his laptop, and opened the door to the hallway.

"Oh, by the way, Dr. Carter?" Sherlock began just as the doctor was about to exit the room, "don't bother telling your wife about your affair; she already knows."

With a glare that was equally icy and confused, Carter spat, "How can you possibly know that?"

"Your shirt and tie, obviously. It's abundantly clear your wife dresses you every day. At our last meeting, you wore black trousers, a purple shirt, and a white tie; perfectly matched and very professional. Today, however, you've come in khakis, wearing a tie that clearly clashes with your shirt and is altogether unprofessional. Sometime between our last appointment and this appointment, your wife discovered your infidelity and is now trying to get back at you in any way possible—even in something as seemingly insignificant as horrible outfits... Have a lovely day." A smirk fresh on his lips, Sherlock turned his attention away from the retreating doctor and back to John. "Well done John," he added with a proud smile.

"Thanks," the doctor muttered with a shake of his head and humourless chuckle. "What an arsehole."

"And to think: somebody almost didn't believe me." Sherlock raised a brow, a sly smile pressed upon his lips.

"Yeah, sorry about that mate," John apologized, flashing a weak smile. With a small shake of his head, the doctor crossed over to the paper towel dispenser and then pulled a few sheets out. "Let's start again, shall we?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"And, for the record," John added as he crossed back to Sherlock and began wiping the gel off his friend's middle, "arsehole is putting it kindly."

"Right so," Sherlock agreed, allowing his head to loll back against the cot's small, sheet-covered pillow.

"Also, care to explain to me why you don't have room in your brain for Lestrade's first name, but you can remember the clothes Carter was wearing at the last appointment?" John asked, raising an incredulous brow as he threw the soiled paper towels in the nearest trash bin.

"Because Lestrade's first name is simply not as important as the man who was going to be caring for, examining, and subsequently delivering our babies. I catalogued anything and everything I could about him. Lestrade's first name does not merit that level of care, you see."

Rolling his eyes, John squeezed some of the ultrasound gel onto his palm. "Going to be cold," he warned.

"Yes." Quirking his lips just slightly as John pressed the cold liquid to his stomach, Sherlock turned his gaze to the ultrasound screen, eagerly awaiting a view of his children.

"Right, then. Here we go." John pressed the wand gently to Sherlock's middle.

Eyes wide with wonder and eagerness, Sherlock felt his breath escape his lungs as a grey, grainy image suddenly popped upon the screen. Sherlock's mouth went slightly slack as the outline of an incredibly small baby came into view. "Oh," he sighed, the sound barely audible, "hello, my little one. So nice to see you again." The detective felt the distinct sting of tears irritate his eyes. "God, John. Look at that."

"I'm looking," the doctor replied, a few tears of his own welling up.

"Mmm. Oh, look!" Sherlock couldn't help but gasp just slightly upon seeing the baby shift slightly out of view. "God, I wish I could feel that."

"Soon. A week or two," John reassured with a tender smile. "Ready to see the other little one?"

"No, not... Just a few more moments, please."

"Of course." Perfectly content to gaze at the image of one of their children for a few moments more, John held the wand steady. A warm chill spilled through his veins at the words; _their children_. The doctor still couldn't believe that the babies growing just below Sherlock's skin shared his DNA. "Beautiful."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement, wiping at the moisture around his eyes. "Alright." He pressed one of his large hands to the ultrasound screen, splaying his fingers over the grey image. "Goodbye, little one."

Knowing this was Sherlock's way of telling him he was ready to see the other baby, John moved the wand around Sherlock's middle, trying to locate the other one. "Oh, bloody hell!" he exclaimed softly and with a shake of his head. "I forgot!" Keeping the wand in place, the doctor leaned towards the machine and clicked on a switch. The sound of thumbing hearts filled the small room.

Upon hearing the sound of his babies' hearts beating soundly in tandem, Sherlock felt his breath catch violently in his throat. He closed his eyes, having been so suddenly transported back to that fateful day nearly four years ago—the day he'd heard Lyla's heartbeat for the first time and was so strongly compelled to keep her.

As he regained his breath, Sherlock opened his eyes, settling them again on the screen. As John passed between babies, a thin wall came and went upon the screen. Because of the second baby's position, however, the doctor was only able to get a profile view of the little one's head. "Sorry, mate, but this is the best I can get us today."

"No, that's... that's perfect, John." Sherlock's eyes hungrily raked over the screen as the baby shifted just slightly, revealing a profile of its small nose and mouth. "Look at her."

"Her?" John chuckled, raising a fond brow at his friend. "What makes you say 'her?'"

"Just a feeling."

"'Just a feeling.' Yeah, okay." With a warm smile, John also took in the image on the screen.

"Isn't it amazing?" Sherlock whispered, watching with a warm smile as the little baby turned its head back and forth.

"What's that?"

"I can't even see them, and yet I know they're beautiful. I haven't even met them, and yet I know they're incredible. I can't even feel them moving, and yet their existence brings me so much joy I think I might burst." Eyes brimming with fondness, Sherlock pressed a single fingertip to the ultrasound screen, covering the second baby's little hand. "God... Look what you've done to me." A small smile spread over the detective's lips as he committed every movement to memory.

"Made you soft," John whispered fondly to himself, so quietly he was certain Sherlock hadn't heard.

"Have not," Sherlock retorted quietly, his deep voice blending in with the thumping of the babies' heartbeats. "It's all these bloody hormones."

"Yes. That's what it is."

Rolling his eyes and blinking away the moisture there, Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position. "Piss off."

Smiling in response, John switched off the ultrasound machine, snatched a few paper towels, and then handed them to Sherlock.

"We need to go shopping sometime soon," the detective mused aloud as he wiped away the gel from his middle. "We're out of peanut butter."

"Again? Sherlock, I just bought some last week."

"It was a little jar!"

"Bloody hell."

Some time later, the two flat mates were settled in the cab and on their way back to the flat. As they drove out of the hospital's parking lot, Sherlock suddenly started with a small gasp. "I never had you check to see if the babies were alright; if they looked healthy."

"Don't worry," John reassured with a chuckle, "I checked, of course. They both looked beautiful. No visible defects, at least none I could see... In short?"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked with wide, eager eyes.

A smile. "They were absolutely perfect."

Against his typical behavior, Sherlock allowed a wide and warm smile to dance over his lips. "I couldn't agree more." Heaving a content sigh, the detective turned his gaze away from his flat mate and watched the passing scenery. He closed his eyes, allowing the pure joy of those grey images to flood his brain.

John gazed at Sherlock, noting the small smile curved on his friend's lips. As streets, houses, and people passed by the window behind Sherlock's head, the doctor couldn't help but note that the detective looked absolutely radiant; his skin seemed to glow, his harsh features seemed to have softened, and his usually-icy gaze was now warm and inviting. With a small smile, the doctor turned his gaze out his own window.

"Stop it," Sherlock stated suddenly, not even bothering to open his eyes.

" _What_?"

"You were thinking about me. It's annoying." Visualizing the incredulous and aggravated expression he knew John had fixed upon him, Sherlock smiled smugly and then tucked a hand into his coat pocket. "You are still buying me peanut butter, though?" he asked suddenly, opening his eyes to fix a worried gaze upon the doctor.

John threw his arms up the air. "Bloody hell."


	25. Window of Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Please enjoy this longer chapter as we all attempt to recover from the emotional rollercoaster that was series four!
> 
> P.S. I've almost completed the birth chapter for this pregnancy and I cannot wait for you guys to read it! Very excited. =)

**21 weeks**

"I just don't understand," Sherlock grumbled with a groan as he crawled into bed. "Everything online confirms—I absolutely should have felt the babies move by now." He collapsed onto his back and then frowned at the ceiling, pondering. "What if something's wrong with them?" he asked, turning a worried gaze to John.

"Nothing is wrong," the doctor assured from where he was seated on the edge of the bed. "I told you at the last scan; they look tremendously healthy."

"Why haven't I felt them, then? I'm thin, tall, there's two of them in there; all indicate I should have felt them by now."

"Sorry, mate. You're just going to have to be patient." Gazing at his phone, John laid back, settling into the folds of the bed.

"Not my strongest suit." Pressing his lips into a firm line, Sherlock worried them with his teeth. As he lay still, staring at the ceiling, he soon found the weight of two babies put far too much pressure on the small of his back. "Insufferable," Sherlock muttered between gritted teeth as he grasped blindly around the bed for what had become known as his 'pregnancy pillow.'

"Here," John sighed, producing the pillow from where it fallen off the side of the bed. He then promptly returned his gaze to his mobile.

Grumbling his thanks, Sherlock lodged the pillow between his knees. "Amazing the things you take for granted."

"What's that?"

"Sleep. Even though I hate it."

"Ah. Restless sleeping, then?"

A groan. "Right on schedule." Feeling the ever-familiar and ever-annoying pull of exhaustion, Sherlock briefly closed his eyes. "It also doesn't help that Lestrade hasn't handed me an interesting case in weeks. My mind's quite literally got nothing to do... I honestly don't know you deal with it every day."

Eyes on his phone, John ignored the comment.

"And now I don't even have _them_ to keep me occupied." The detective gestured towards his middle. "At least I'd have something to do with my spare time if they were moving; track movements, response, effective stimuli." He heaved a sigh. "So bored."

John merely chuckled.

Even with the pillow between his knees, Sherlock could not find a comfortable position. Despite the fact that he had been getting more and more tired lately, the detective found it increasingly difficult to get to sleep at night. He knew tonight would be no different.

"Well, I have a horribly early morning tomorrow, so I'm going to pop off now. Seriously though, I wouldn't worry, mate. I'm sure you're going to feel them soon."

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. "How reassuring."

"Well, I try." A faint smile on his lips, John rolled himself over and then closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Sherlock. I hope you get some sleep, yeah?"

The detective merely hummed in reply. As he had nothing better to do, Sherlock listened to John's deep and uneven breaths. Hoping to occupy his mind long enough to make him forget how tired he was, the detective decided to count in his head how long it took John to fall asleep. Upon reaching 12 minutes and 22 seconds, he heard the doctor begin to snore; his breaths evened out. "Shorter than usual," he murmured, absentmindedly draping an arm over the curve of his middle. "Must be especially tired tonight."

As he lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the flat, of London outside, Sherlock once again felt uncomfortable; he felt as though the folds of the bed were pulling him in, suffocating him. As he rolled over and scooted slightly closer to John's slumbering form, the detective suddenly had a thought. "Do you two _know_ there's two of you in there? Are you even aware of your own existence? And, if you _are_ aware that you're sharing the same space in there, does that bother you? Is it crowded?" He pondered for a moment. "It must be quite uncomfortable, the two of you having to share such a small space." Pursing his lips together, Sherlock settled his hand atop the curve of his clothed middle. "Come on," he urged, wanting so desperately to feel the lives growing rapidly beneath his fingertips. "I know you can do it."

Splaying his fingers over his middle, Sherlock pressed his lips together and waited.

Several minutes later, however, nothing had happened. The detective removed his fingers from his abdomen. "Fine. Don't listen to me. I'll just wait, then." Even though Sherlock really _did_ want to feel the babies move, his voice was laced with unfettered kindness.

Disappointment, coupled with complete lack of sleep, soon began to pull the detective's eyes closed. Conceding that he was just going to have to wait a little while longer to feel the babies move, Sherlock settled himself slightly closer to John's warm form and then welcomed sleep.

 

 

 

Sherlock awoke with a start.

He frowned in the dark, unaware of what had startled him so suddenly. His senses thrummed slowly to life.

As he heaved a breath, inhaling deeply through his nose, the detective suddenly became aware of John's hand, settled against his upper arm. (In the time they'd spent sharing a room, Sherlock had discovered that John was a mild sleep-cuddler.) While he usually would have brushed the doctor's hand away, Sherlock concluded such an effort would require too much energy—energy he would much rather devote to falling back asleep.

Just as the warm arms of sleep were about to envelop him once again in their merciful hold, Sherlock felt what had originally woken him from his slumber: a gentle pop in his middle.

Now fully awake and functioning at full capacity, Sherlock felt his heart quicken in his chest. Not wanting to wake John, he silently rolled out from beneath the doctor's touch and then hurried into the kitchen.

One hand planted against the counter behind him, Sherlock held his breath as he waited for more movement. "Oh, come on, I know it's late, but you're the ones who woke me up in the first place, so come on now," he whispered in the dark. His fingers gently cradled his middle. "Come on." The detective held his breath when, as if on cue, there came a flurry of movements from his middle—separate, but simultaneous. A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "There's my girls," he murmured, heart thudding excitedly in his chest. "And about bloody time, too."

Sherlock's mouth went slightly slack when one of the babies, positioned on the lower right side of his middle, moved just slightly. The detective could almost feel the breath push out of his lungs when the other baby seemed to kick the underside of his ribs. Despite the uncomfortableness of a tiny foot lodged beneath his ribs, Sherlock marveled in the sensation. "About bloody time."

The smile returning to his lips, Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the familiar sensation of a baby moving in his middle, but also enjoying the entirely new sensation of two distinct babies moving separately within him. "Incredible."

There was a sudden flurry of movement, not unlike popcorn pops, as if in response to the detective's deep voice. A smile. "How lovely."

Knowing he would not be getting any more sleep tonight, Sherlock made himself a cup of tea, grabbed a blanket, and then settled himself on the couch. "And so the extra-sleepless nights begin."

 

 

 

John awoke exceptionally early to an empty bed and to an exceptionally exhausted-looking Sherlock, seated on the couch, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea. "Bad night?" the doctor inquired, hands on his hips.

"Quite a good one, in fact. Just... no sleep."

"Ah. I'm sorry mate. Restless sleeping again?"

A coy smile danced over the detective's lips. "In a way, yes."

Noting the sudden spark in his friend's eyes, John raised a brow. "Care to elaborate?"

Sherlock merely sipped his tea and then raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Realization flashed across John's expression. A wide grin soon followed. "You felt them?" he asked with an elated chuckle.

"Indeed I did. For several hours, in fact. They only just decided to get some sleep, apparently," he added, scolding fondly at his middle. "So inconsiderate."

"Yeah, right," John chuckled. He crossed his arms, as small smile on his lips. "Can you feel them both, then? Individually?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a fascinated smile. "It's a rather... unique sensation. Though, not horribly noticeable just yet. I'm not sure I would have been as aware of their movements last night if it wasn't for my experience with Lyla the last go-around." The smile soon slid from Sherlock's lips as he yawned deeply.

"How long have you been awake?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Minus the three hours of sleep I got last night? Thirty-one hours."

"Bloody... Sherlock, you need some sleep."

"Obviously, but in case you have forgotten, you're off to work and we've got a daughter who is need of someone to look after her," Sherlock mumbled sarcastically. He ran a slender hand through his unruly curls.

"Quite right. And Mrs. Hudson is perfectly capable of doing the looking-after today. You, on the other hand, are going to catch up on your sleep." The doctor offered a hand to his seated flat mate. "Come on, then," he urged when the detective merely stared at him.

With a soft groan, Sherlock leaned forward and grasped John's outstretched hand. The doctor pulled him to his feet. "Thank you."

John merely smiled before nodding towards the bedroom.

"Right." After abandoning his cup of tea on one of the side tables, Sherlock padded into the bedroom, secretly grateful that John had insisted he get some sleep. With another yawn, the detective tugged off his t-shirt, replacing it with his favourite robe. He crawled into bed with a soft groan. "Not that I'm trying to be rude," Sherlock chuckled to his middle as he crawled into bed, "but you two are getting quite heavy."

After lodging a pillow between his knees, Sherlock draped an arm over his middle. Despite the exhaustion that was continuously drip, drip, dripping into his veins, the detective gazed at the wall on John's side of the bed as he cradled the curve of his belly. "I'm not calling you two fat, of course," he added hurriedly, as if as an afterthought. "It's just that two babies at once is rather quite a lot." Heaving a deep sigh, the detective closed his eyes. "It's quite a lot to love, as well, though." Sherlock could feel as one of the babies moved slightly, the sensation just a flutter. A warm smile danced across the detective's cupid bow lips. "Thank you, darling. I feel quite the same."

Features soft and relaxed, and with a hand draped protectively around his middle, Sherlock settled into the comfortable folds of the bed and quickly nodded off.

 

 

 

**23 weeks**

If John had learned anything from Sherlock's pregnancy with Lyla, it was to enjoy the short window where hormones forced Sherlock to momentarily forget he was an arsehole.

Today was one of those windows.

"Ah, thank you, John," Sherlock said cheerfully after the doctor set a hot cup of tea in front of him.

"Very welcome, mate."

"Also, that's quite a lovely jumper," the detective added, an element of shock in his voice; he almost seemed confused as to why he'd never noticed the fabric before.

John smiled proudly. "Thanks, mate."

"Mmm." Sherlock returned his attention to the microscopic specimen before him. He adjusted the knobs, bringing the sample into view. "Oceanic in nature." Glancing to his right as he thought, Sherlock pursed his lips. "Oceanic..." A thought suddenly occurring, the detective quickly pulled the current specimen out of the microscope, replacing it with the slide from the suspect's shoe print. He peered through the microscope's lens, smiling proudly to himself when it revealed just what he thought it would. "Ah!"

An idea forming in his brilliant mind, Sherlock gasped excitedly. "Of course! That's it." Hopping off the chair (as best he could), Sherlock quickly grabbed his coat and then yelled for John. "John, we're going out for dinner!"

Knowing Lyla was upstairs, the detective gently knocked on the stairs leading up to her room. "Lyla, love, we're going out for dinner!" Almost immediately, the tell-tale sound of Lyla's footfalls could be heard, quickly descending the stairs. "Coming, Daddy!"

Smiling fondly to himself, Sherlock turned and made to find the little girl's coat. Just as he heard her round the corner of the stairs, however, there came a small thud followed by an "oof!"

Sherlock turned on his heel. "Lyla?" he called, hurrying back to the stairs. "You okay?" The detective hurried up to where Lyla was seated on one of the steps, scowling at the corner she'd tripped over. Despite the size of his middle, Sherlock crouched near his daughter's seated form. He ran a hand over her curls. "Did you hurt yourself, darling?"

"Don't think so, Daddy," she replied with a severe frown as she nursed her elbow. "Just stupid."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. "Where did you hear that?" he chuckled, helping the little girl to her feet. "Stupid?"

Lyla suddenly looked confused. "From you, Daddy," she answered, grabbing ahold of her father's hand. The detective's smile widened. "Of course."

 

 

 

After gathering John and properly clothing Lyla, the three flat mates were situated in a cab and off towards their destination.

"Where is it we're going, again?" John asked across Lyla, who was seated in between him and Sherlock. "I didn't hear what you said."

"Local seafood place."

John frowned. "But you hate seafood."

Sherlock's eyes flicked toward the window for a moment before returning to their position straight ahead. "Craving," he supplied too quickly. His lips twitched to the side.

Even though John knew Sherlock despised seafood, he mentally shrugged, aware that hormones can do strange things to one's palate.

The three sat in relative silence for the remainder of the car ride.

As the cab pulled up outside the restaurant, John took Lyla in his arms and got out of the cab, while Sherlock did the same on the other side. "Sushi Supreme?" the doctor asked with an incredulous scoff. "You had a sudden craving for _Sushi Supreme_?"

In response, Sherlock merely smiled slyly and turned up his collar. The trio entered restaurant, only to find it empty and with no host or hostess waiting to seat them. John pressed his lips into a thin line as he took in the dingy restaurant. The smell of old fish instantly assaulted his senses. The walls were a gloomy beige color, stained dark by years of grease, grime, and food. While wallpaper trim had once covered the length of one of the walls, it was now peeling off, leaving behind a white residue in its place. The linoleum on the floor was curling up along the lengths of the walls and in the corners, revealing grimy white tiles beneath. Half expecting rats and cockroaches to crawl out of the peeling walls, John pressed Lyla closer to his chest.

Sensing his friend's confused presence behind him, Sherlock quickly glanced at the seating layout, located behind the host's stand. "This one should do just fine." With his usual confidence, the detective marched over to a nearby booth and then took a seat. When he realized John had not followed suit, he glanced back over his shoulders and raised his brows expectantly. "Come on," he mouthed, waving them over.

Pressing Lyla close, John hesitantly crossed over to Sherlock. He slotted the little girl next to the detective and then took a seat on the other side of the booth. "Eat here often do you?" he asked skeptically.

"Mmm." Linking his fingers atop his lap, Sherlock smiled warmly as a tired-looking waiter sauntered towards them.

"Hello, and welcome to Sushi Supreme. My name is Joe and I'll be your waiter today. Can I start you off with something to drink?"

"Actually, if you're ready, we know what we want."

"Do we really?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, unusually cheerful.

John continued to frown at his flat mate, genuinely concerned that the detective had lost some portion of his mind.

"We'll all just have water to drink."

The waiter scribbled on his notepad. "Right, and to eat?"

"One of every seafood item on your menu... Please." Sherlock smiled expectantly at the waiter, whose fingers had stilled against the notepad. "I'm sorry, could you not hear me? I want—"

"No, I... I heard you." The waiter squinted at Sherlock. "You do realize almost everything on our menu has seafood in it?"

Sherlock merely smiled in reply.

"... Right." The waiter padded out of the dining area and back into the kitchen.

"Are you going to tell me what the bloody hell we're doing here, Sherlock, because I know it's not because you've had a sudden craving for every type of seafood on the planet."

"Quite so, John," Sherlock agreed, a faint smile plastered on his lips.

"Mm-hmm, so what are we doing here?"

"Proving a guilty verdict."

Before John could press the issue further, the waiter returned to the table, three waters in hand. Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes when he set a full-size water in front of Lyla. "Don't worry, darling," he reassured when the waiter had left, "you don't want to drink that anyway." The detective smiled to himself when Lyla scooted closer to his legs.

Ignoring the incredulous stare he was receiving from John, Sherlock tucked a hand into his coat pocket and then pulled out a small bottle and a roll of tape. Checking to make sure the waiter was not headed their direction, he opened the small bottle, dumped the contents into the palm of his hand, and then blew the black powder onto his water glass.

A realization dawning, John glared as Sherlock blew more of the powder—which John soon realized was charcoal dust—onto the glass. "Really?" he implored with a frown.

"Really." Having coated most of the glass with the powder, Sherlock then leaned closer to the cup and began to examine it. "Ah," he sighed excitedly, having found what he was looking for. The detective tore off a strip of tape and then pressed it to a very specific spot on the glass. As he removed the tape, lifting off a layer of charcoal dust, Sherlock also found a perfectly-preserved fingerprint—the waiter's. "Excellent." Smiling to himself, Sherlock took the lifted print and then pressed it to a microscope slide. He then tucked everything back into his coat pockets.

The three flat mates sat in relative silence until the enormity of the food Sherlock had ordered began to arrive. Having more or less caught on, John watched in mild annoyance as Sherlock pulled nearly three dozen baggies out of his coat pocket and began to bag small samples from each of the dishes.

After gathering a small bit of the last dish and bagging it away, the detective heaved a dramatic sigh—one that indicated he had gotten what he wanted—and turned an expectant gaze to Lyla. "Well, I don't know about you, but I am quite ready to get out of here and get some good food."

Lyla nodded eagerly in response as she scooted out of the booth.

"What—you can't just leave without paying," John cried, hands in the air.

"No, quite right," Sherlock agreed with a groan as he also scooted out of the booth behind Lyla. "Which is why you're going to pay while Lyla and I call a cab." Before John could protest, Sherlock had wrapped a hand around Lyla's and was leading her from the damp restaurant.

After heaving a frustrated sigh, John quite literally emptied the contents of his wallet on the table, knowing it would cover the tip and bill. The doctor ignored the anger boiling through his veins and instead made his way outside, where Sherlock was helping Lyla into the cab he'd called. The detective in question smiled mischievously to himself as John's heated form entered the cab. "Relax, I'll pay next time."

John merely scoffed in response. "And when will that be, exactly?"

"Very soon, in fact. 221B Baker Street, please."

"Oh what, you're going to pay for the food that's already in the flat, eh?"

"No, below it, in fact."

A few minutes later, when the cab dropped the trio of flat mates off outside the flat, John understood.

"In you go, darling," Sherlock murmured quietly as he opened the door to Speedy's for his daughter's smaller form.

"Tank you, Daddy." The little girl toddled in, taking a seat at her favourite booth. John and Sherlock soon followed. As the waitress delivered four orders of fish and chips (Sherlock had ordered an extra for himself), John found his anger had more-or-less faded away.

"So," the doctor suggested as he took a bite of a chip, "care to explain what all your baggies and samples were for?"

"Once I've proved I'm right, yes." Sherlock smiled fondly at his scoffing flat mate. As he began to tuck into the second order of fish and chips, Sherlock felt one of the babies shift abruptly in his middle. The sensation took his breath away and, along with it, his appetite.

"Okay?" John asked, noticing as Sherlock put back the chip he'd had in hand.

The detective nodded. "Quite. Just a bit of movement, that's all." Sherlock felt a paternal flutter run down the length of his spine when he settled the palm of his hand against the spot where he'd felt the movement. "It tends to take the breath away." Keeping his hand settled firmly against his stomach, Sherlock finished off his basket of fish and chips once his appetite returned. He could feel John's eyes on him. "Would you stop staring at me? I am eating for three, after all. I should think you'd be proud."

John merely pressed his lips together.

Once back in the flat (after Sherlock had paid for the meal, of course), John sat on the couch with Lyla—having a good cuddle—while Sherlock worked on solving the rest of the case.

Not even bothering to change into his nightclothes, Sherlock pulled all of his samples out of his coat pocket and then spread them about the kitchen table. "Right." Picking out one of the baggies at random, the detective spread the sample onto a microscope slide and began the last leg of his experiment. The first few bags he selected yielded no results. On sample number twelve, however, the detective found what he was looking for. "The salmon! Of course." Sherlock pulled the slide out of the microscope stage with a triumphant smile.

"You what?"

"The victim—it was poisoned salmon that killed him."

John emerged from the sitting room, a sleepy-looking Lyla in his arms. "How'd you figure that out?"

"Easy. There was a single, identifiable footprint left at the crime scene. Naturally, I lifted a few samples—"

"Naturally."

"—and examined them at the lab. Given the specific types of mud clay and pollen caked into the sole of his shoes, it was very easy to pinpoint where the murderer usually spends most of his time, and create a map reference. But, just having a map reference point doesn't do me much good, so I know I needed to narrow down my searching field. Even though I'd already determined that our victim had been poisoned by something he'd ingested, I decided to take a second look at the contents of his stomach—specifically, the contents that contained the poison. After sifting through several samples, I found one that contained enough food for me to dissect. A few minutes looking at that particular sample led me to realize that the food he'd eaten was oceanic in nature—seafood. Therefore, all I had to do was refer back to the map reference I'd created earlier and find any location that served, sold, or interacted with seafood. That particular part of town is not exactly known for its culinary seafood, however, so narrowing it down to the Sushi Supreme restaurant was quite simple. Now all Lestrade has to do is phone down, find out who was in charge of preparing the salmon on the night of the victim's murder—though I suspect Joe may have had a hand in preparing some of the food, that's why I lifted his print—and arrest him. Simple."

John would have rolled his eyes, had he not once again been thoroughly amazed. "Brilliant."

Sherlock glanced at the doctor, meeting his gaze for a moment. "Oh, thank you." After shooting a small smile in his flat mate's direction, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and dialed Lestrade's number. He padded out of the room.

John gazed at the empty space Sherlock had just vacated. He smiled fondly to himself, wondering how the detective never failed to amaze him. He turned his attention to Lyla, who was falling fast asleep in his arms. "How about we get you up to bed, yes?" Smiling when the little girl yawned in reply, John pressed a quick kiss to Lyla's temple and then ascended the stairs to her room.

Knowing John would have taken care of Lyla, Sherlock made his way to the bathroom once he'd gotten off the phone with Lestrade. Even though he was physically exhausted, the detective felt mentally and emotionally rejuvenated. Despite the fact that he knew this could likely be attributed to hormonal imbalances, he found he didn't care.

After brushing his teeth and washing his face, the detective planted a hand on either side of the sink and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. While he knew he'd been gaining some weight—impossible to avoid this far along—Sherlock had not really noticed where it had been distributed. Now, though, looking at his reflection, the detective noticed much of the gained weight had gone to his face; the hollows beneath his cheeks were nearly filled in; his jawline was not as sharp; his cheekbones were less pronounced.

While such changes would have usually bothered Sherlock, he knew they were the necessary results of the lives he was carrying. Therefore, he found he didn't really mind such noticeable changes. In fact, though he would never admit it, the detective rather enjoyed his fuller figure, the way his hair grew thicker, his skin became less pallid.

After one last glance at himself in the mirror, Sherlock left the bathroom. He found John, already clothed in his pajamas, lying in bed. "Lyla's down?" he asked, changing into his own nightclothes.

"Down and out," John replied with a chuckle.

"Good, good." A faint smile on his own lips, Sherlock crawled into bed. "Good God," he mumbled when the bed dipped slightly under his weight. "I fear you're going to need a lift to get me in and out of bed in the future." He could hear John chuckle lightly beside him.

"No, we won't," the doctor assured with a smile. "Besides, you're progressing along so nicely that I would be worried if we didn't need to entertain the possibility of a lift at some point."

As he rolled onto his right side, Sherlock scoffed. "Doesn't change how positively humongous I feel."

"I hate to break it to you, mate, but you still have a ways to go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me," he mumbled, though the playful tone was clear in his voice. Slotting a pillow between his knees, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when a small amount of pressure was lifted off his lower back. "Thank you," he murmured to no one in particular. He could feel as John rolled over beside him, settling in. Just as he was about to nod off, himself, Sherlock rolled slightly more to the right; he found the increased pressure on his middle relieved some of the pressure in his lower back. One of the babies clearly had different plans, however. Sherlock rolled his eyes when the baby on the right side of his middle provided him with a swift kick below the ribs. "Bloody hell. Fine, fine." Obeying this silent order, Sherlock rolled himself onto his left side. "Is that better?" he asked, settling a protective hand over the source of the kick. "I certainly hope you don't treat your sister that way."

"Sister?" John asked, craning his head back to peer at his flat mate.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Sister, yes, obviously."

"Obviously. And what about the other one?"

"Both girls, I should think."

John groaned.

"What?"

"I'm not sure we're properly equipped to deal with a household of girls," the doctor chuckled with a yawn.

"Oh, don't worry, John. I'm sure that, between the two of us, we'll find some way to screw them up." Sherlock chuckled to himself. "I could also be wrong about both of them being girls."

"Because that happens so often," John chuckled sarcastically, settling back into the bed.

Adjusting the pillow between his knees, Sherlock nodded in silent agreement. "By the way," he added, closing his eyes, "I really do like the jumper."

A smile. "Thanks, mate." The doctor could hear as Sherlock's breaths steadied out behind him. "Enjoy the window while it lasts," he chuckled to himself, not evening noticing he'd said it out loud.

"What window?"

"Bloody hell, go to sleep, Sherlock!"


End file.
